Love clutters up our lives–

with emotions and children and unwashed dishes.

We could live such streamlined lives,

if only

we could jettison

love and entanglements–

We could have stainless steel appliances and dinner at bistros

without responsibility


to wrap around us

with sticky little fingers

on our best white blouse.


The Wolves at the Door

This piece was inspired by an illustration by Daniel Egneus for a version of Little Red Riding Hood.


The wolves are at the door.

My heart beating madly, I try to think of a way to send them away.

I feel their hot breath through the wood.

Wheedling and cajoling, they try to entice me. “Come outside, little girl,” they say. “We only want to play.”

I have seen how they play, the tattered skins on the blood-soaked playground; circling around their playthings, the wolvish grins bright as the moonlight reflects off their wolvish teeth.

“I cannot,” I reply. “No one is home and I have to tend the fires.”

Grinding their teeth, they whine—“Let the fires go out. We like the dark.” They laugh.

“I cannot. My master likes the fires, and he is much fiercer than you.”

I tell them in my sweetest voice: “Come back tomorrow and I will play.”

The youngest wolf knows me. He sighs, “We will be back tomorrow and will not take no for an answer…” I hear them leave.

I lean against the door, and look at the blood on my hands and my fierce master on the floor. I look at the fire burning brightly in the hearth. Tomorrow is good.

Tomorrow I will be ready for them. They are nothing compared to my master.

I laugh at the fate of the wolves.

Galileo’s Moons

Galileo's moons

Moons – sepia ink on vanilla parchment, delicate drawings of truth–

His life full of the observations of a keen mind and ardent student of the universe,

not content to rely on the experiments of Aristotle. Seeking to find anew the reality

of faith in nature.

His world and God’s, the same; heresies be damned.

Changing our world so long ago and leaving us a legacy of refracted glass and stars that are imploding, still,





There it was again. The taste of ashes in her mouth. She stared at the ground. It was always after she saw him, passing on the street unnoticed, that the horrid taste was left behind. Nothing to it, she knew it was all illusion. But there it was, again and again. More than he realized, he had scarred her and left behind a scorched will; she was spiritless whenever she thought of all the time she had wasted, waiting for him to call her.
She spit the memories out of her mouth, and kept walking. She would find someone else, a new taste for her mouth, someone fresh and angelic, less prone to brimstone and more prone to a creamy chocolate goodness. Someone with a soul.