Back in New York. To the winter. To the cold. To the low low low in the heart. But how nice that we have each other. And are alive. 

Here's a new essay I wrote about Brady (my stepdad) and living with veterans of war. It's simple, but I hope it's truthful. 

The essay is up on InDigest and is called, Listen. I hope you read it if you have the time.

I haven't made a New Year's resolution yet. I am resolved against delusion, but I am tossed up in dreams. 

I hadn't realized how long it's been since I've typed into this here journal. Almost 2 months. What is new is what is new for most people. Life. Death. The swings in between. Now, I'm in Washington with my family. My stepmom is real sick and we spend lots of time together laughing the dozing and making plans.

This came out today in the Portable Boog Reader. I read it to her while she took it easy in bed; she liked it a lot. So, that's nice.

I sent in my final book edits today to Milkweed Editions for Sharks in the Rivers and I'm getting very excited for the book. But this poem is in a whole different book. (The fourth, and yet to be determined amorphous book of strays.)

It's raining, and cold. I've worn my slippers all day. Though I did change into jeans around 5pm when the nurse left. I don't miss New York right now, but I do miss my dear ones. 

The fire is lit. The fire is lit. The fire is lit. (Now, I must stare at it.)