I walk along dusty streets at the base of the Verdugo Mountains just north of Los Angeles, my gaze fixed upon the jagged horizon, where an angry orange line burns, jumping and snapping, devouring brush and charring the landscape. Last night, shifting winds pushed wildfire over the canyon close to my home, the one I share with my husband and our daughter, who, like the city, is named after angels.
Recent Fiction
When I mention how I don’t want to think about last winter, my husband says, “Why, what happened last winter?”
Every time they got together, it was like this. The sister would go and visit the brother in their hometown, or the brother would come and see the sister in her college town.
The notice came in the mail on Tuesday, but it remained sitting beside the refrigerator, resting, ignored, like a piece of partly burned cake.
Recent Poetry
in her mouth, a song picked up at the company store
the cocooned hidden heart hanging
did they forget / the vibration / of our throats / humming / in the shade?
The #MeToo movement sweeps through the academy, then through American Buddhism, and back.
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I know it’s unfathomable to see
after the way we’ve anointed him
patron saint of peace
prophet of nonviolence
The notice came in the mail on Tuesday, but it remained sitting beside the refrigerator, resting, ignored, like a piece of partly burned cake.
The road is straight for miles: not that you can see that with the gentle roll of the land but you’ve driven and walked and run it for thirty years and you have it in your heart dull and gray on a moonless night…