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Each time we revisit the past, we bring a different version of ourselves. The facts may remain the same, but our understanding evolves. As children, we experience events without fully grasping their meaning. As adults, we return with perspective, life experience, and, I hope, greater compassion for the people we once were. As a writer, I also learned to trust restraint. My early drafts explained…
No. I don’t want to meet the oncologist who tells me it's pancreatic cancer. I ask questions that have no answer – all rust and ache. Sorry, so many apologies and yet the truth is still unbearable. Sorry pokes into another vein. Sorry don’t know...
At the risk of being overly-dramatic, I've had to learn to lean into the discomfort, which is a Buddhist principle. What I mean by discomfort is that my time is constantly being disrupted by my kids, my elderly dog, my spouse, the business responsibilities, teaching ---- living. One day I'll again have three hours every morning to write. But now, I've learned to write down lines as they arrive...
My parents do not attend the ceremony. Daddy bangs around upstairs, packing for another trip. After he whizzes off, Mummy tells us they’re getting a divorce. None of my schoolfriends have parents who’ve got divorces and I worry they’ll need to be told, that the headmaster might announce it at Assembly, after the Lord’s Prayer...
If nature, however, begets only nature, such that our tending and lining and sucking are natural, as are the noisy babies and tools, then so are the four hundred and fifty–five kilotons wearing exhaust like a wedding band, poking out of the sea—
The dealer shot the ball, rippling up and down the wheel. Red, black, red, black. The odd green swirling in. Every roll held a blissful future — the world collapsing into nothing or blooming under my palms. It wasn't a fool's bet. It was the opposite of marriage...
My dad’s career was with an oil company in Alaska, and I worked for the company myself one summer. My life today is very different from that—I live in Minneapolis, doing work that feels distant from the project of taking oil out of the ground, if not always its opposite. The poems look back at that time “close” to oil with curiosity. I basically asked myself over and over, “When was I closest to…
Welcome to the beating heart of summer... Days when the heat lingers long into the evening, and the cicadas serenade the sun as it slides out of view. Today, we are beyond thrilled to announce the winner of this year's HoneyBee Poetry Prize, Mara Lee Grayson, and with this exciting news, the release of Issue #24! We highly recommend pouring a glass of ice-cold lemonade and spending some quality…
What keeps me coming back to the keyboard is the chance to live beyond myself. Unlike the restrictions of my singular life, writing allows me to step into new modes of being, to see new perspectives, and learn from them. If I want to know if there's life after love, I can step into being a widow and all its burdens. If I want to confront my mortality, I can become a man in his final days. If I…
We hold each other before meals from then on, one sleeve each grasped by my hand and his, a circle of human flesh and wool. We tell my mother’s coat about the day, fill her pockets with plastic dinosaurs, and sniff air around the notched collar...
