July 1 • 2026
I'm writing from home
where I spend most days with
dog
desk
dirt in the garden.
I'm writing from home
distractions everywhere
apple cores for the squirrels, on the falling down fence,
drifting back into Monica's lavender bush.
I used twine, I love twine, to mend it.
Four planks tethered like row boats at a dock.
I'm writing from home,
tea cup, third cup
cool air, dark sky
it might be 95 degrees in Vermont this week.
I'm writing from home
sitting on conversation with J who said she chooses to live in Disney World, or is it land? I nearly choked on her insistence I don't have privilege. I live in other dimensions, she said, This place, thumb and index together is one small piece. This world, this life. It's all a game. Follow up texts, odd explanations.
My wanting to shake her sequestered self.
I'm writing from home
and grief over Venezuelans buried under concrete and dust. They found an 18 day old baby, Juan David, and later his mother, alive, thirty-two hours under rubble. I stayed alive for my son. Milagros! Recently deported immigrants sent back to Caracas died in the quake.
We're under rubble here, whipping flags on cars, babies in prisons, algae pools.
I'm writing from home
where I swirl around, sweeping kitchen floor, sleeping dog fur, green maple leaves, the news of the day, distractions and delicious cool air, and what stories will I share with my college students. This is a simple class, four weeks ~ a summer camp of stories and poems + where did you live when you were twelve?
I'm writing from home
legs resting on my desk, ankles crossed,
no birds, listing fence,
my tea lukewarm
my thumb grows numb holding the pen
my heart, less achy with this scribbling on paper,
in a simple composition book.
xo b
