top of page

In the two-room, graduate-school apartment,

one-eighth of a brownstone whose only virtue was eleven-foot ceilings,

my new husband,

despondent at the little space,

with a cousin designed and built

a loft bed.

At first, I thought, How innovative, creative, even genius!

Thick wooden planks solid and rich,

matching ladder naughtily bohemian for staid doctoral candidates.

He was proud, elated.

But making the bed required the skills and muscle tone

of an advanced yoga master.

And during sleep, if in the night a pimple broke through on your nose,

it grazed the ceiling.

One morning, suspecting the rest of my life tied to

his incessant impossible highs and lows,

I climbed down the ladder

and walked out.

Recent Posts

See All


But who wouldn’t want to look that good in mismatched bra and panties? She’s not looking in the mirror she holds. Lying on loose sheets, little rhetorical mouth a little open. She’s waiting for her hu


Like God, Girlhood is a kind of middle distance— the fit and flare moment a girl decides the noir of crying in public isn’t worth ruining her makeup. If you’ve checked his DMs, his computer history, t


The seam of my Snoopy PJs brushed between my thighs and I flushed awake. My sister snoring in the bunk above. Short fingers stirred playground mud into cake batter—slow to separate the liquid maw of p

bottom of page