Rocket Girl

you float for a time in the “even so,” casually, miraculously, inexorably growing limbs and features and organs, that all-important beating heart.  No one tells you meanwhile in “Houston…we have a problem” or that the problem is something you  cannot (would not)

unmake you

/girlness /not boyness, your binary /identification /of /gender 

Will be enough to terminate the mission

… when all along you have done your best in the beautiful floating weeks of the “even so”

You matchless irreplaceable girl-in-the-now, girl-for-a-moment

Until mission control

Aborts, aborts

Letting you

tiny dancer, rocket girl


To the March

In deep winter

she chooses to suspend 

All the ordinary chores 

Drags a heavy fishing net to the belly

of this man-made stream

Feet first into

cold deep

Swims upstream

where they wait for her

bobbing on the water

snagged by the naked

limbs of winter branches

An old oil can, adorned with red duct tape,

several empty beer bottles,

torn flotational device,

And a veritable tableau of shirts and trousers

Snagged on naked limbs

then animated by the wind

Once carefully extricated

she lines the children up by year, gender, alleged disability

Names them back to life

So they can indeed

Fly, flock of winter birds 

to inauguration.


I told you

This was a two-part answer

Ironically framed

By the disembodied voice 

Selling cars in the next room

It’s like calling

A cathedral 

A room with four walls

And a ceiling


I think as I finish

Stuffing variegated laundry

Into the high efficiency machine

That is true

You my darling 

Are no mere room

With four walls and a ceiling 

You are a cathedral 

And should be treated as such

Tear down this temple

And I will raise it again in three 


He said

Evoking all

The foundations in the womb

Baby pictures and toothy grins

Girls whose smiles light up the room

Do not be content to be

Measured the way a man will

Span an ordinary room

Know instead 

It takes a lifetime and a fortune

To raise the extraordinary 


Flying buttresses

Stained glass windows

Columns and impossible


All to the altar

Rising incense

Gaze of the Infinite


Mary Elizabeth Williams and the politics of death

I read MEW’s screed about abortion today. It was a difficult read.

As a self-identified pro-life “wing nut” who actually believes that all life is precious, I found her unapologetic stance painful and tragic.

Ms. William’s candor and vitriol were difficult for me to read….because she reveals the selfishness and myopia at the heart of the abortion-on-demand movement. Make no mistake, abortion is a money industry, just like guns or drugs. But to aggressively insist that mother’s have an unfettered right to kill their own offspring at will? Her words reveal the desperate lack of value placed on the lives of the very young.

No society is civilized when it drops it’s protective force for the young and vulnerable. We are now a society that registers horror over the natural predatory nature of cats but congratulates itself on the termination of wee humans.

When children are openly treated as objects by their own mothers we are all lost at sea.

…our hearts as empty as our words.

IKEA erases women

IKEA erases women

A giant multinational furniture company decides to erase images of modestly attired women to appease Saudi Arabian autocracy. And where is the outcry from women all over the world?

Feminism is dead. If not dead, useless, if this egregious act of dehumanizing women produces no response from us.

I went to the company website to protest and was directed to ask “Annie” a question.

I won’t be surprised if she doesn’t answer. She has probably been erased.

“the good beach”

For a long time my name was Bitch. I will only write it once, hereafter I will use a placeholder, but it is important for me to acknowledge it just once.

My adopted daughter called me this regularly for years. Never without venom. It hurt to be called beach because of the venom. It hurt because she was saying I was not human, without value.

I suspected that my new nickname, like much of her other abusive behavior, was a reflection of her own struggles with identity. She said I was the beach, but struggled with who she was and how valuable she was.

She was valuable to me. I had sacrificed a great deal to be her beach, um… mom.

She is still valuable to me. I know she can be a pain in the grass, but she is my daughter. She is my daughter.

When someone treats her badly or dehumanizes her or devalues her. And let us be clear, those words themselves are placeholders for very bad things. People who should help her have done very bad things instead. Well, I may be a beach, but I want to stomp and yell and kick’em in the shins.

I want to say stop!! She is worth more than this!! She is my daughter.

I want to have a healing, undoing, potion for the harm done to her.

I do. It is a single name–Jesus. He became the beach for her, for me, for all of us to undo the undoable, to restore our lost and stolen value.

When she tells me what has happened to her I grieve and wish she would stop running from the one Man who raises the value of an ordinary beach like me.

He buys the field/finds the treasure/sets the captive free.

And instead of the rude name we have become accustomed to, He cups our faces in His hands and calls us by our eternal name–
Very Dear…