in March



hours before we pulled up the drawbridge and shut down



my doctor gave me a box of nearly new women’s shoes               size 7 ½                   for


the shelter     or the shop        ore. . . from his wife     who died quite suddenly     I knew her 


from high school            when he slid the box of shoes into my car   



            he said            she hated shoes          I remember her Birkenstocks



                        we embraced                 a tiny buffer between anguish and the next breath  






the neatly packed shoes wait in my closet for now


                          the seeds I planted in eggshells in March are tomato plants 


                                        I  feel fragile   sometimes 


like the spider-crack on my computer screen


like a fault line                        


like a land mine          







Selected Writings:





Thoughts of a Dying Woman



Under the Couch