See, I own a number of swords, some for fencing with, some for playing pirate with, and two for dancing. One is my Rakkashah sword, made for belly dancing - a show sword, shiny and fancy looking, real, but without a sharp edge. Though it's just as tricky to balance on your head edge-on, and you could probably actually kill someone with it, you wouldn't ever use it in a fight - it's essentially a prop.

Then there's my scimitar. It was purchased for me as a gift the last year that Renaiss... read more

It's the second anniversary of Mom's passing away, and I realize I've been very emotional this past week; it took me awhile to figure out why. I went through some of the poems I wrote at the time, and found strangely sage advice to myself...


The Expected Things

At the funeral home, I answered questions...
this, for the death certificate
that, for the obituary -
how, in one paragraph, do you sum
a person's life?
I chose the cover of the registry - trees and a pond;
I cho... read more

I hear your voice in my head
as if you stood behind me, close enough to stroke my cheek
as if I could lean my head along your arm, as your fingertips reached out;
I imagine living with you,
hearing your voice at the end of the day, your turns of phrase
drifting into my ears, the rhythm of your breath
next to me in bed, as you slept.
What life would that be
if yours were the body beside me in the dark,
the arms wrapped around me
when I needed comfort, the legs rubbing lazily
along m... read more

He carefully removes each item of her clothing
as if unwrapping a gift.
He kisses her neck, and
she realizes that
for the past fifteen years
the one she lives with has not once undressed her,
has only waited under the covers
for her to come naked to bed,
like a box of cornflakes or some other dry staple,
taken down off the shelf occasionally, then
less often than that, when annual winds
kindle a taste for her.
And she thinks:
I am raspberries...or a pomegranate,
many, many li... read more