{"id":21,"date":"2025-06-13T02:03:52","date_gmt":"2025-06-13T02:03:52","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/yayserver.com\/debbiebacharach\/?page_id=21"},"modified":"2025-08-06T20:03:58","modified_gmt":"2025-08-06T20:03:58","slug":"poetry","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/yayserver.com\/debbiebacharach\/writing\/poetry\/","title":{"rendered":"Poetry"},"content":{"rendered":"<section class=\"l-section wpb_row us_custom_6f23fff9 shadow after height_large\"><div class=\"l-section-h i-cf\"><div class=\"g-cols vc_row via_grid cols_1 laptops-cols_inherit tablets-cols_inherit mobiles-cols_1 valign_top type_default stacking_default\"><div class=\"wpb_column vc_column_container\"><div class=\"vc_column-inner\"><div class=\"wpb_text_column us_custom_8c2a34d7 has_text_color\"><div class=\"wpb_wrapper\"><h1 style=\"text-align: right;\">Poems<\/h1>\n<\/div><\/div><\/div><\/div><\/div><\/div><\/section><section class=\"l-section wpb_row us_custom_17b0f606 height_auto\"><div class=\"l-section-h i-cf\"><div class=\"g-cols vc_row via_grid cols_1-2 laptops-cols_inherit tablets-cols_inherit mobiles-cols_1 valign_top type_default stacking_default\"><div class=\"wpb_column vc_column_container us_custom_14e0ddb9 has_text_color has_bg_color stretched type_sticky\"><div class=\"vc_column-inner\"><div class=\"wpb_text_column us_custom_6029dd67 hide_on_default hide_on_laptops hide_on_tablets\"><div class=\"wpb_wrapper\"><p style=\"text-align: center;\"><em><strong>Browse poems:<\/strong><\/em><\/p>\n<\/div><\/div><div class=\"w-html hide_on_default hide_on_laptops hide_on_tablets\"><select id=\"poemsMobileSelect\"><option value=\"2656\">Shake and Tremor<\/option><option value=\"2648\">The Jewish Mathematicians<\/option><option value=\"2654\">Self-Portrait: A Cloud<\/option><option value=\"2655\">Scrubbed<\/option><option value=\"2982\">New poem<\/option><option value=\"2653\">Tuned<\/option><option value=\"2650\">My Inner Punk Rock Skateboarder Stands in Front of Rothko<\/option><option value=\"2649\">Listening to Women<\/option><option value=\"2646\">The Heroin Addict on 77th and Aurora with the Cardboard Sign<\/option><option value=\"2645\">For My Friend, Grieving<\/option><option value=\"2641\">Enduring Power<\/option><\/select><\/div><div class=\"w-separator hide_on_mobiles size_large\"><\/div><div class=\"w-grid hide_on_mobiles type_grid layout_2659 cols_1\" id=\"poems-nav\" style=\"--columns:1;--gap:0rem;\" data-filterable=\"true\"><style>.layout_2659 .w-grid-item-h{}.layout_2659 .usg_post_title_1{transition-duration:0.6s;transform-origin:0% 50%;transform:scale(1) translate(0%,0%);opacity:0.7}.layout_2659 .w-grid-item-h:focus-within .usg_post_title_1,.layout_2659 .w-grid-item-h:hover .usg_post_title_1{transform:scale(1.1) translate(0%,0%);opacity:1;color:var(--color-content-border)!important}.layout_2659 .usg_vwrapper_1{transition-duration:0.3s;transform-origin:50% 50%;transform:scale(1) translate(0%,0%)}.layout_2659 .w-grid-item-h:focus-within .usg_vwrapper_1,.layout_2659 .w-grid-item-h:hover .usg_vwrapper_1{transform:scale(1) translate(0%,0%);opacity:1;color:var(--color-chrome-toolbar)!important}.layout_2659 .usg_post_title_1{padding:0!important;margin:0!important}.layout_2659 .usg_vwrapper_1{padding-bottom:0.4rem!important}<\/style><div class=\"w-grid-list\">\t<article class=\"w-grid-item size_1x1 post-2656 poem type-poem status-publish hentry\" data-id=\"2656\">\r\n\t\t<div class=\"w-grid-item-h\">\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"w-vwrapper usg_vwrapper_1 align_none valign_top\"><p class=\"w-post-elm post_title usg_post_title_1 align_left entry-title color_link_inherit\"><a href=\"#\">Shake and Tremor<\/a><\/p><\/div>\t\t<\/div>\r\n\t\t\t<\/article>\r\n\t<article class=\"w-grid-item size_1x1 post-2648 poem type-poem status-publish hentry\" data-id=\"2648\">\r\n\t\t<div class=\"w-grid-item-h\">\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"w-vwrapper usg_vwrapper_1 align_none valign_top\"><p class=\"w-post-elm post_title usg_post_title_1 align_left entry-title color_link_inherit\"><a href=\"#\">The Jewish Mathematicians<\/a><\/p><\/div>\t\t<\/div>\r\n\t\t\t<\/article>\r\n\t<article class=\"w-grid-item size_1x1 post-2654 poem type-poem status-publish hentry\" data-id=\"2654\">\r\n\t\t<div class=\"w-grid-item-h\">\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"w-vwrapper usg_vwrapper_1 align_none valign_top\"><p class=\"w-post-elm post_title usg_post_title_1 align_left entry-title color_link_inherit\"><a href=\"#\">Self-Portrait: A Cloud<\/a><\/p><\/div>\t\t<\/div>\r\n\t\t\t<\/article>\r\n\t<article class=\"w-grid-item size_1x1 post-2655 poem type-poem status-publish hentry\" data-id=\"2655\">\r\n\t\t<div class=\"w-grid-item-h\">\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"w-vwrapper usg_vwrapper_1 align_none valign_top\"><p class=\"w-post-elm post_title usg_post_title_1 align_left entry-title color_link_inherit\"><a href=\"#\">Scrubbed<\/a><\/p><\/div>\t\t<\/div>\r\n\t\t\t<\/article>\r\n\t<article class=\"w-grid-item size_1x1 post-2982 poem type-poem status-publish hentry\" data-id=\"2982\">\r\n\t\t<div class=\"w-grid-item-h\">\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"w-vwrapper usg_vwrapper_1 align_none valign_top\"><p class=\"w-post-elm post_title usg_post_title_1 align_left entry-title color_link_inherit\"><a href=\"#\">New poem<\/a><\/p><\/div>\t\t<\/div>\r\n\t\t\t<\/article>\r\n\t<article class=\"w-grid-item size_1x1 post-2653 poem type-poem status-publish hentry\" data-id=\"2653\">\r\n\t\t<div class=\"w-grid-item-h\">\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"w-vwrapper usg_vwrapper_1 align_none valign_top\"><p class=\"w-post-elm post_title usg_post_title_1 align_left entry-title color_link_inherit\"><a href=\"#\">Tuned<\/a><\/p><\/div>\t\t<\/div>\r\n\t\t\t<\/article>\r\n\t<article class=\"w-grid-item size_1x1 post-2650 poem type-poem status-publish hentry\" data-id=\"2650\">\r\n\t\t<div class=\"w-grid-item-h\">\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"w-vwrapper usg_vwrapper_1 align_none valign_top\"><p class=\"w-post-elm post_title usg_post_title_1 align_left entry-title color_link_inherit\"><a href=\"#\">My Inner Punk Rock Skateboarder Stands in Front of Rothko<\/a><\/p><\/div>\t\t<\/div>\r\n\t\t\t<\/article>\r\n\t<article class=\"w-grid-item size_1x1 post-2649 poem type-poem status-publish hentry\" data-id=\"2649\">\r\n\t\t<div class=\"w-grid-item-h\">\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"w-vwrapper usg_vwrapper_1 align_none valign_top\"><p class=\"w-post-elm post_title usg_post_title_1 align_left entry-title color_link_inherit\"><a href=\"#\">Listening to Women<\/a><\/p><\/div>\t\t<\/div>\r\n\t\t\t<\/article>\r\n\t<article class=\"w-grid-item size_1x1 post-2646 poem type-poem status-publish hentry\" data-id=\"2646\">\r\n\t\t<div class=\"w-grid-item-h\">\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"w-vwrapper usg_vwrapper_1 align_none valign_top\"><p class=\"w-post-elm post_title usg_post_title_1 align_left entry-title color_link_inherit\"><a href=\"#\">The Heroin Addict on 77th and Aurora with the Cardboard Sign<\/a><\/p><\/div>\t\t<\/div>\r\n\t\t\t<\/article>\r\n\t<article class=\"w-grid-item size_1x1 post-2645 poem type-poem status-publish hentry\" data-id=\"2645\">\r\n\t\t<div class=\"w-grid-item-h\">\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"w-vwrapper usg_vwrapper_1 align_none valign_top\"><p class=\"w-post-elm post_title usg_post_title_1 align_left entry-title color_link_inherit\"><a href=\"#\">For My Friend, Grieving<\/a><\/p><\/div>\t\t<\/div>\r\n\t\t\t<\/article>\r\n\t<article class=\"w-grid-item size_1x1 post-2641 poem type-poem status-publish hentry\" data-id=\"2641\">\r\n\t\t<div class=\"w-grid-item-h\">\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"w-vwrapper usg_vwrapper_1 align_none valign_top\"><p class=\"w-post-elm post_title usg_post_title_1 align_left entry-title color_link_inherit\"><a href=\"#\">Enduring Power<\/a><\/p><\/div>\t\t<\/div>\r\n\t\t\t<\/article>\r\n<\/div><div class=\"w-grid-preloader\">\t<div class=\"g-preloader type_1\">\r\n\t\t<div><\/div>\r\n\t<\/div>\r\n\t<\/div>\t<div class=\"w-grid-json hidden\" onclick='return {&quot;action&quot;:&quot;us_ajax_grid&quot;,&quot;infinite_scroll&quot;:0,&quot;max_num_pages&quot;:1,&quot;pagination&quot;:&quot;none&quot;,&quot;template_vars&quot;:{&quot;columns&quot;:&quot;1&quot;,&quot;exclude_items&quot;:&quot;none&quot;,&quot;img_size&quot;:&quot;default&quot;,&quot;ignore_items_size&quot;:0,&quot;items_layout&quot;:&quot;2659&quot;,&quot;items_offset&quot;:&quot;1&quot;,&quot;load_animation&quot;:&quot;none&quot;,&quot;overriding_link&quot;:&quot;%7B%22url%22%3A%22%22%7D&quot;,&quot;post_id&quot;:0,&quot;query_args&quot;:{&quot;post_type&quot;:[&quot;poem&quot;],&quot;post_status&quot;:[&quot;publish&quot;,&quot;acf-disabled&quot;],&quot;posts_per_page&quot;:999},&quot;orderby_query_args&quot;:{&quot;orderby&quot;:{&quot;post__in&quot;:&quot;DESC&quot;},&quot;order&quot;:&quot;DESC&quot;},&quot;type&quot;:&quot;grid&quot;,&quot;us_grid_post_type&quot;:&quot;poem&quot;,&quot;us_grid_ajax_index&quot;:1,&quot;us_grid_filter_query_string&quot;:null,&quot;us_grid_index&quot;:1,&quot;page_args&quot;:[]}}'><\/div>\r\n\t<\/div><div class=\"w-separator hide_on_mobiles size_large\"><\/div><\/div><\/div><div class=\"wpb_column vc_column_container\"><div class=\"vc_column-inner\"><div class=\"w-separator size_large\"><\/div><div class=\"w-grid hide_on_mobiles type_grid layout_2660 cols_1\" id=\"poems\" style=\"--columns:1;--gap:1.5rem;\" data-filterable=\"true\"><style>.layout_2660 .w-grid-item-h{}.layout_2660 .usg_vwrapper_3{transition-duration:0.3s;transform-origin:50% 50%;transform:scale(1) translate(0%,0%)}.layout_2660 .w-grid-item-h:focus-within .usg_vwrapper_3,.layout_2660 .w-grid-item-h:hover .usg_vwrapper_3{transform:scale(1) translate(0%,0%);opacity:1}.layout_2660 .usg_vwrapper_1{width:100%!important}.layout_2660 .usg_post_content_1{width:100%!important;padding-top:3rem!important}.layout_2660 .usg_post_title_1{margin-bottom:0!important;padding-bottom:0!important}.layout_2660 .usg_vwrapper_3{width:100%!important;position:relative!important}.layout_2660 .usg_post_custom_field_1{font-style:italic!important;margin-left:0!important;padding-left:0!important}<\/style><div class=\"w-grid-list\">\t<article class=\"w-grid-item size_1x1 post-2656 poem type-poem status-publish hentry\" data-id=\"2656\">\r\n\t\t<div class=\"w-grid-item-h\">\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"w-vwrapper usg_vwrapper_3 align_none valign_top\" style=\"--vwrapper-gap:0rem\"><div class=\"w-vwrapper usg_vwrapper_1 poem-content align_none valign_top\"><h2 class=\"w-post-elm post_title usg_post_title_1 entry-title color_link_inherit\">Shake and Tremor<\/h2><div class=\"w-post-elm post_custom_field usg_post_custom_field_1 poem-source type_text poem_source color_link_inherit\"><span class=\"w-post-elm-before\">Published in <\/span><a target=\"_blank\" href=\"https:\/\/sweetlit.com\/issue-12-2\/poet-deborah-bacharach\/\"><span class=\"w-post-elm-value\">Sweet Lit<\/span><\/a><\/div><div class=\"w-post-elm post_content usg_post_content_1\"><p><a ref=\"magnificPopup\" href=\"https:\/\/yayserver.com\/debbiebacharach\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/08\/Jardins-dHiver-Hermes-Silk-Scarf-NIB-4.webp\"><img loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone wp-image-2990 size-medium\" src=\"https:\/\/yayserver.com\/debbiebacharach\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/08\/Jardins-dHiver-Hermes-Silk-Scarf-NIB-4-300x300.webp\" alt=\"\" width=\"300\" height=\"300\" srcset=\"https:\/\/yayserver.com\/debbiebacharach\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/08\/Jardins-dHiver-Hermes-Silk-Scarf-NIB-4-300x300.webp 300w, https:\/\/yayserver.com\/debbiebacharach\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/08\/Jardins-dHiver-Hermes-Silk-Scarf-NIB-4-1024x1024.webp 1024w, https:\/\/yayserver.com\/debbiebacharach\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/08\/Jardins-dHiver-Hermes-Silk-Scarf-NIB-4-150x150.webp 150w, https:\/\/yayserver.com\/debbiebacharach\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/08\/Jardins-dHiver-Hermes-Silk-Scarf-NIB-4-1320x1320.webp 1320w, https:\/\/yayserver.com\/debbiebacharach\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/08\/Jardins-dHiver-Hermes-Silk-Scarf-NIB-4.webp 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 300px) 100vw, 300px\" \/><\/a><\/p>\n<p><em>But Lot\u2019s wife looked back, and she became a pillar of salt.<\/em><\/p>\n<p>\u2014Genesis 19:26<\/p>\n<p>Still the blue heron lifts long legs over early morning.<br \/>\nStill the blue green boulders filled with barnacles.<br \/>\nStill the green ropes of sea.<br \/>\nStill rivulets in the sand, remnants of the night.<br \/>\nStill I believe in the power of lust,<br \/>\nthe full shake and tremor of living<br \/>\non a moving planet that revolves around a ball of fire.<br \/>\nStill the crabs small and white like moons in need<br \/>\nlike promises unspoken<br \/>\nor promises spoken and unfulfilled.<br \/>\nStill I wish to be swallowed whole by the sea.<br \/>\nStill the sea, the spume and crash of the sea.<br \/>\nStill the salt rich water coating my skin.<br \/>\nStill my porous skin.<\/p>\n<\/div><\/div><\/div>\t\t<\/div>\r\n\t\t\t<\/article>\r\n\t<article class=\"w-grid-item size_1x1 post-2648 poem type-poem status-publish hentry\" data-id=\"2648\">\r\n\t\t<div class=\"w-grid-item-h\">\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"w-vwrapper usg_vwrapper_3 align_none valign_top\" style=\"--vwrapper-gap:0rem\"><div class=\"w-vwrapper usg_vwrapper_1 poem-content align_none valign_top\"><h2 class=\"w-post-elm post_title usg_post_title_1 entry-title color_link_inherit\">The Jewish Mathematicians<\/h2><div class=\"w-post-elm post_custom_field usg_post_custom_field_1 poem-source type_text poem_source color_link_inherit\"><span class=\"w-post-elm-before\">Published in <\/span><a target=\"_blank\" href=\"https:\/\/www.minyanmag.com\/deborahbacharach.html\"><span class=\"w-post-elm-value\">Minyan<\/span><\/a><\/div><div class=\"w-post-elm post_content usg_post_content_1\"><div style=\"width: 1140px;\" class=\"wp-video\"><video class=\"wp-video-shortcode\" id=\"video-2648-1\" width=\"1140\" height=\"641\" preload=\"metadata\" controls=\"controls\"><source type=\"video\/mp4\" src=\"https:\/\/yayserver.com\/debbiebacharach\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/08\/2209362_Aerial_Volcanic_1280x720.mp4?_=1\" \/><a href=\"https:\/\/yayserver.com\/debbiebacharach\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/08\/2209362_Aerial_Volcanic_1280x720.mp4\">https:\/\/yayserver.com\/debbiebacharach\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/08\/2209362_Aerial_Volcanic_1280x720.mp4<\/a><\/video><\/div>\n<p>We all had lice back then<br \/>\nin our unwashed jacket pockets,<br \/>\ncrawling along the stained seams<br \/>\nof our handsewn shirts and basted<br \/>\nbuttonholes as we lectured<br \/>\non combinatorics at the University of Lviv<br \/>\nbefore it was shut down by Nazis.<\/p>\n<p>The Nazis hired Dr. Weigle.<br \/>\nDr. Weigle hired us who used to sit<br \/>\nquiet, pencils scratching in the Polish coffee shops<br \/>\n(now closed or filled with Nazis)<br \/>\nto sit in his lab, caged lice on our legs.<\/p>\n<p>If you didn&#8217;t scratch, you wouldn&#8217;t die,<br \/>\nthat day. Mathematicians, we would<br \/>\nsink deep into the fourth dimension,<br \/>\nthe one without hunger or fear, our daughters<br \/>\nstill in pirouette. We would do what<\/p>\n<p>we have always done since<br \/>\nEuclid, Pythagoras, Archimedes\u2014<br \/>\nfind a lever big enough,<br \/>\nprepare to move the world.<\/p>\n<\/div><\/div><\/div>\t\t<\/div>\r\n\t\t\t<\/article>\r\n\t<article class=\"w-grid-item size_1x1 post-2654 poem type-poem status-publish hentry\" data-id=\"2654\">\r\n\t\t<div class=\"w-grid-item-h\">\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"w-vwrapper usg_vwrapper_3 align_none valign_top\" style=\"--vwrapper-gap:0rem\"><div class=\"w-vwrapper usg_vwrapper_1 poem-content align_none valign_top\"><h2 class=\"w-post-elm post_title usg_post_title_1 entry-title color_link_inherit\">Self-Portrait: A Cloud<\/h2><div class=\"w-post-elm post_custom_field usg_post_custom_field_1 poem-source type_text poem_source color_link_inherit\"><span class=\"w-post-elm-before\">Published in <\/span><a target=\"_blank\" href=\"https:\/\/judithmagazine.substack.com\/p\/beyond-the-fiddle-introducing-the\"><span class=\"w-post-elm-value\">Judith<\/span><\/a><\/div><div class=\"w-post-elm post_content usg_post_content_1\"><p>that makes the infinite<br \/>\nbearable, water in the desert,<br \/>\nlovely<br \/>\nand fleeting,<br \/>\nas is so much.<\/p>\n<p>Who is alone and afraid?<\/p>\n<p>All will fall in the sand\u2014oarlocks, scavengers,<br \/>\nthe ripped bird\u2019s wing.<\/p>\n<p>Mandela says,<br \/>\nYour playing small does not serve the world.<\/p>\n<p>When the heat-soaked banks<br \/>\nwith their ogre-arms<br \/>\nhurl stone silence at you,<br \/>\nknow my name.<\/p>\n<\/div><\/div><\/div>\t\t<\/div>\r\n\t\t\t<\/article>\r\n\t<article class=\"w-grid-item size_1x1 post-2655 poem type-poem status-publish hentry\" data-id=\"2655\">\r\n\t\t<div class=\"w-grid-item-h\">\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"w-vwrapper usg_vwrapper_3 align_none valign_top\" style=\"--vwrapper-gap:0rem\"><div class=\"w-vwrapper usg_vwrapper_1 poem-content align_none valign_top\"><h2 class=\"w-post-elm post_title usg_post_title_1 entry-title color_link_inherit\">Scrubbed<\/h2><div class=\"w-post-elm post_custom_field usg_post_custom_field_1 poem-source type_text poem_source color_link_inherit\"><span class=\"w-post-elm-before\">Published in <\/span><a target=\"_blank\" href=\"https:\/\/www.ronslate.com\/scrubbed\/?fbclid=IwAR1m2Wd19vMsvpq9rUck9XdoVtuP4Qyib3MYsqpPn_ja-HDy_UypAZvS2jI\"><span class=\"w-post-elm-value\">On The Seawall<\/span><\/a><\/div><div class=\"w-post-elm post_content usg_post_content_1\"><p>The pot, having been useful<br \/>\nin the way objects with one job and not another can be useful,<br \/>\nwhich is to say melting golden onions, a low hum of spices,<br \/>\nwaits to be washed. If I heft it<br \/>\nonce more from stove to sink, I\u2019ll be done in,<br \/>\nfailure of planning and prioritization, i.e.<br \/>\nweightlifting is supposed to happen every T, TH, 10 a.m.<br \/>\nbut doesn\u2019t. The pot\u2019s not a real Le Creuset. Those cost<br \/>\nmore than I\u2019m willing to spend. But the job gets done.<\/p>\n<p>I didn\u2019t say I didn\u2019t have a job.<br \/>\nFor three minutes today, I tutored<br \/>\na midwifery student on prepositions<br \/>\nin an evidence-based practice. Because it involves<br \/>\ngetting up at 4 a.m. which would wound our days,<br \/>\nthe biting comments to our kids, the compensating calories,<br \/>\nmy sister tells my mom we can\u2019t drive her to the airport<br \/>\nat 5 in the morning. When the sponge slides<br \/>\ninside the white of the Dutch oven, first<br \/>\nthe warm bubbles snuggling then the scrub down<br \/>\nthe red deep smooth sides of the empty supper pot, it\u2019s like<br \/>\na lesson in perception. Know your colors. Reconcile yourself.<\/p>\n<p>The house smells like candles. \u201cIt\u2019s my birthday!\u201d I say.<br \/>\nIt\u2019s not. My birthday over, nothing left to celebrate, I rinse the pot, heave it<br \/>\nback on the stove, sweet mint lingers in the corner of my mouth,<br \/>\nwater swirls clear of the drain. I hold close the damp dish cloth.<br \/>\nI\u2019m not a sign language interpreter for the UN, which Grandma Adele<br \/>\nsuggested over lunch at Neiman\u2019s was better than teaching<br \/>\ncommunity college crazies. I have never hosted a B\u2019Nai Brith luncheon for fifty or flown to Timbuktu.<\/p>\n<p>Every childhood morning my mother<br \/>\nscrubbed burnt oatmeal off the bottom of the pan.<br \/>\nAt work she slipped her hand in a puppet, hid behind a felt curtain,<br \/>\nmade the crocodile cackle.<\/p>\n<\/div><\/div><\/div>\t\t<\/div>\r\n\t\t\t<\/article>\r\n\t<article class=\"w-grid-item size_1x1 post-2982 poem type-poem status-publish hentry\" data-id=\"2982\">\r\n\t\t<div class=\"w-grid-item-h\">\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"w-vwrapper usg_vwrapper_3 align_none valign_top\" style=\"--vwrapper-gap:0rem\"><div class=\"w-vwrapper usg_vwrapper_1 poem-content align_none valign_top\"><h2 class=\"w-post-elm post_title usg_post_title_1 entry-title color_link_inherit\">New poem<\/h2><div class=\"w-post-elm post_custom_field usg_post_custom_field_1 poem-source type_text poem_source color_link_inherit\"><span class=\"w-post-elm-before\">Published in <\/span><a target=\"_blank\" href=\"https:\/\/rivermouthreview.com\/issue-13-portals\/deborahbacharach\"><span class=\"w-post-elm-value\">River Mouth Reviews<\/span><\/a><\/div><div class=\"w-post-elm post_content usg_post_content_1\"><p>sfe fwerewr wer twertwrt ewrt wrt<\/p>\n<\/div><\/div><\/div>\t\t<\/div>\r\n\t\t\t<\/article>\r\n\t<article class=\"w-grid-item size_1x1 post-2653 poem type-poem status-publish hentry\" data-id=\"2653\">\r\n\t\t<div class=\"w-grid-item-h\">\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"w-vwrapper usg_vwrapper_3 align_none valign_top\" style=\"--vwrapper-gap:0rem\"><div class=\"w-vwrapper usg_vwrapper_1 poem-content align_none valign_top\"><h2 class=\"w-post-elm post_title usg_post_title_1 entry-title color_link_inherit\">Tuned<\/h2><div class=\"w-post-elm post_custom_field usg_post_custom_field_1 poem-source type_text poem_source color_link_inherit\"><span class=\"w-post-elm-before\">Published in <\/span><a target=\"_blank\" href=\"https:\/\/onlypoems.substack.com\/p\/tuned-deborah-bacharach\"><span class=\"w-post-elm-value\">Only Poems Daily<\/span><\/a><\/div><div class=\"w-post-elm post_content usg_post_content_1\"><p>He dusts my nipples<br \/>\nas though they are piano keys.<br \/>\nAs though he has never heard<br \/>\nRachmaninoff\u2019s Prelude<br \/>\nOpus 23, No. 5<br \/>\nin G minor.<br \/>\nHard notes. Marcato.<br \/>\nPoco meno mosso.<br \/>\nHarder.<\/p>\n<\/div><\/div><\/div>\t\t<\/div>\r\n\t\t\t<\/article>\r\n\t<article class=\"w-grid-item size_1x1 post-2650 poem type-poem status-publish hentry\" data-id=\"2650\">\r\n\t\t<div class=\"w-grid-item-h\">\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"w-vwrapper usg_vwrapper_3 align_none valign_top\" style=\"--vwrapper-gap:0rem\"><div class=\"w-vwrapper usg_vwrapper_1 poem-content align_none valign_top\"><h2 class=\"w-post-elm post_title usg_post_title_1 entry-title color_link_inherit\">My Inner Punk Rock Skateboarder Stands in Front of Rothko<\/h2><div class=\"w-post-elm post_custom_field usg_post_custom_field_1 poem-source type_text poem_source color_link_inherit\"><span class=\"w-post-elm-before\">Published in <\/span><a target=\"_blank\" href=\"https:\/\/www.2river.org\/2RView\/26_1\/poems\/bacharach.html\"><span class=\"w-post-elm-value\">The 2River View<\/span><\/a><\/div><div class=\"w-post-elm post_content usg_post_content_1\"><p>In the crack<br \/>\nI exist. You\u2019ve seen me.<br \/>\nYou know I am a fist.<br \/>\nWhen I refuse to be naked,<br \/>\nI will be put up against the wall.<\/p>\n<p>If I roll the word shit<br \/>\naround\u00a0in my mouth if I suck<br \/>\non it, chew on it,\u00a0I will at least not care<br \/>\nit\u2019s killing me. I wish<br \/>\nI could disappear into the black<br \/>\nmarks that become the frame<br \/>\nof faces that maybe if I could<br \/>\nkeep pushing back\u00a0far enough<br \/>\nbecome human. My body the only truth<br \/>\nmy body the only way to tag<br \/>\nI have lived with love.<br \/>\nI am plummeting.<\/p>\n<\/div><\/div><\/div>\t\t<\/div>\r\n\t\t\t<\/article>\r\n\t<article class=\"w-grid-item size_1x1 post-2649 poem type-poem status-publish hentry\" data-id=\"2649\">\r\n\t\t<div class=\"w-grid-item-h\">\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"w-vwrapper usg_vwrapper_3 align_none valign_top\" style=\"--vwrapper-gap:0rem\"><div class=\"w-vwrapper usg_vwrapper_1 poem-content align_none valign_top\"><h2 class=\"w-post-elm post_title usg_post_title_1 entry-title color_link_inherit\">Listening to Women<\/h2><div class=\"w-post-elm post_custom_field usg_post_custom_field_1 poem-source type_text poem_source color_link_inherit\"><span class=\"w-post-elm-before\">Published in <\/span><a target=\"_blank\" href=\"https:\/\/lastsyllablelit.com\/listening-to-women\"><span class=\"w-post-elm-value\">Last Syllable<\/span><\/a><\/div><div class=\"w-post-elm post_content usg_post_content_1\"><p dir=\"auto\"><span><em>Twenty Years Ago in Winslow Homer&#8217;s<\/em> The New Novel<\/span><\/p>\n<p class=\"body\" dir=\"auto\"><span>Book in hand, this young woman<\/span><br \/>\n<span>reclines on her side.<\/span><\/p>\n<p class=\"body\" dir=\"auto\"><span>For all we know, right now <\/span><br \/>\n<span>she walks the deck <\/span><br \/>\n<span>of a fighting ship, love&#8217;s <\/span><br \/>\n<span>swashbuckler; dances all night<\/span><br \/>\n<span>in liquid candlelight \u2014 the waltz!<\/span><br \/>\n<span>the waltz decadent!; spits elegant<\/span><br \/>\n<span>retorts from overstuffed chintz.<\/span><\/p>\n<p class=\"body\" dir=\"auto\"><span>Oh, I know. I ran away and lived <\/span><br \/>\n<span>on <em>My Side of the Mountain<\/em>, <\/span><br \/>\n<span>with a carved fishhook; transformed myself <\/span><br \/>\n<span>into a witch, with all the spells <\/span><br \/>\n<span>of <em>Jennifer, Hecate, Macbeth;<\/em><\/span><br \/>\n<span>made my first love <em>Forever.<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n<p class=\"body\" dir=\"auto\"><span>Just like the women reading <\/span><br \/>\n<span><em>The New Novel<\/em>, I go to books<\/span><br \/>\n<span>when I lose like the 5th grade spelling bee<\/span><br \/>\n<span>out on except, accept, <\/span><br \/>\n<span>back at my desk, cheeks burning.<\/span><br \/>\n<span>I ride books every plane trip locked <\/span><br \/>\n<span>and bored, constricted on all sides. <\/span><br \/>\n<span>I fall into them every night.<\/span><\/p>\n<p class=\"body\" dir=\"auto\"><span>It&#8217;s the way one leg bends,<\/span><br \/>\n<span>the reader&#8217;s white bow loose, <\/span><br \/>\n<span>her red dress looser.<\/span><br \/>\n<span>the way her face angles <\/span><br \/>\n<span>to the open page. Oh, peace.<\/span><\/p>\n<p class=\"body\" dir=\"auto\"><span><em>My Daughter Reads Books<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n<p class=\"body\" dir=\"auto\"><span>on the ugly white couch with the half-slipped cushions <\/span><br \/>\n<span>when she is supposed to be setting the table<\/span><br \/>\n<span>as she walks from kitchen to dining room,<\/span><br \/>\n<span>blue plastic plate in one hand, paperback in the other.<\/span><\/p>\n<p class=\"body\" dir=\"auto\"><span>In Winslow Homer&#8217;s time, <\/span><br \/>\n<span>just a hundred or so years before my daughter,<\/span><br \/>\n<span>the good reverends let us know<\/span><br \/>\n<span>novels burn the heart, dwarf <\/span><br \/>\n<span>the mind, pervert life&#8217;s duties until <\/span><br \/>\n<span>we slither in the hoofprints of Satan.<\/span><br \/>\n<span>My daughter slithers through books,<\/span><br \/>\n<span>a very hungry caterpillar.<\/span><\/p>\n<p class=\"body\" dir=\"auto\"><span>My daughter reads books<\/span><br \/>\n<span>surrounded by corn muffin crumbs, <\/span><br \/>\n<span>dripped syrup when she is supposed to be <\/span><br \/>\n<span>clearing the table. She reads in the rocking chair <\/span><br \/>\n<span>when she is supposed to be clearing the table.<\/span><\/p>\n<p class=\"body\" dir=\"auto\"><span>In 1860 women read the Good Book, <\/span><br \/>\n<span>a couple psalms, raised, <\/span><br \/>\n<span>as we were, to useless <\/span><br \/>\n<span>lives as Victorian gentlewoman.<\/span><br \/>\n<span>Florence Nightingale<\/span><br \/>\n<span>screamed in drawing rooms, burst<\/span><br \/>\n<span>into flames.<\/span><\/p>\n<p class=\"body\" dir=\"auto\"><span>My daughter reads books<\/span><br \/>\n<span>in the bathroom when she is supposed to be,<\/span><br \/>\n<span><em>I said now,<\/em> clearing the table.<\/span><\/p>\n<p class=\"body\" dir=\"auto\"><span>It wasn&#8217;t all judge a girl&#8217;s character<\/span><br \/>\n<span>by the books she reads. We got books<\/span><br \/>\n<span>as prizes, books as bonds, books <\/span><br \/>\n<span>our women teachers gave us<\/span><br \/>\n<span>from their own small stocked <\/span><br \/>\n<span>polished shelves. They gave us<\/span><br \/>\n<span>solace and laughter, they gave us ourselves.<\/span><\/p>\n<p class=\"body\" dir=\"auto\"><span>My daughter reads books<\/span><br \/>\n<span>waiting at the passport office,<\/span><br \/>\n<span>in the car on the way to synagogue when she is mad at me,<\/span><br \/>\n<span>in the car on the way home from synagogue no longer mad. <\/span><\/p>\n<p class=\"body\" dir=\"auto\"><span>But then there&#8217;s 1886 homeschooling pioneer <\/span><br \/>\n<span>Charlotte Mason who made sure women heard <\/span><br \/>\n<span>a woman reading a novel <\/span><br \/>\n<span>takes a knife to her innards, <\/span><br \/>\n<span>a woman&#8217;s brain&#8217;s not<\/span><br \/>\n<span>constituted like a man&#8217;s, reading sabotages <\/span><br \/>\n<span>her vital metabolic economy.<\/span><\/p>\n<p class=\"body\" dir=\"auto\"><span>My daughter reads books<\/span><br \/>\n<span>in bed,<\/span><br \/>\n<span>in bed past bedtime,<\/span><br \/>\n<span>while picking the icing off her donuts at breakfast,<\/span><br \/>\n<span>while picking her nails.<\/span><\/p>\n<p class=\"body\" dir=\"auto\"><span><em>The girl who sits for hours, poring over a novel <\/em><\/span><em><br \/>\n<\/em><span><em>to the damage of her eyes, her brain, and her <\/em><\/span><em><br \/>\n<\/em><span><em>general nervous system, is guilty<\/em><\/span><em><br \/>\n<\/em><span><em>of a lesser fault of the nature of suicide.<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n<p class=\"body\" dir=\"auto\"><span>My daughter reads books<\/span><br \/>\n<span>while I try to cut her nails,<\/span><br \/>\n<span>when the phone rings with a friend.<\/span><br \/>\n<span>when the doorbell rings.<\/span><\/p>\n<p class=\"body\" dir=\"auto\"><span>She will stun her heart, break her ovaries, <\/span><br \/>\n<span>bring on menstruation, masturbation, insanity.<\/span><br \/>\n<span>Pernicious, she draws away <\/span><br \/>\n<span>the blood for babies.<\/span><br \/>\n<span>I had babies. I read to them<\/span><br \/>\n<span>day and night.<\/span><\/p>\n<p class=\"body\" dir=\"auto\"><span>My daughter reads books<\/span><br \/>\n<span>on the couch when she is supposed to be <\/span><br \/>\n<span>clearing the books off the couch,<\/span><br \/>\n<span>in the bathtub with me reading my book.<\/span><\/p>\n<p class=\"body\" dir=\"auto\"><span><em>They Are Always Calling Our Girls Sluts<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n<p class=\"body\" dir=\"auto\"><span>She has secret passions <em>While her intense<\/em><\/span><br \/>\n<span>She doesn&#8217;t need him<\/span><br \/>\n<span><em>engagement in the book excludes <\/em><\/span><em><br \/>\n<\/em><span><em>the reader from her gaze,<\/em><\/span><br \/>\n<span>Homer needs her <em>vulnerable,<\/em><\/span><em><br \/>\n<\/em><span><em>titillating. Lying on the same plane<\/em><\/span><em><br \/>\n<\/em><span><em>as those who<\/em> are drawn in,<\/span><br \/>\n<span>succubus. <em>The buttons of her dress<\/em><\/span><br \/>\n<span><em>invite undressing, judgment. <\/em><\/span><br \/>\n<span><em>Bold red locks<\/em> fallen <\/span><br \/>\n<span>from the grace of God. Red lips, <\/span><br \/>\n<span>red dress <em>Personal pleasure<\/em><\/span><em><br \/>\n<\/em><span><em>supersedes social duty.<\/em><\/span><br \/>\n<span>Fiction <em>stirs<\/em> a provocative <\/span><br \/>\n<span>promiscuous siren. <\/span><\/p>\n<p class=\"body\" dir=\"auto\"><span>The New Novel <em>Today<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n<p class=\"body\" dir=\"auto\"><span>This time I see that she is all flames;<\/span><br \/>\n<span>the fire laces her as she lies <\/span><br \/>\n<span>in front of the abyss. That she is not afraid<\/span><br \/>\n<span>while she sinks in, does not believe<\/span><br \/>\n<span>wolves will sleek out of the forest.<\/span><\/p>\n<p class=\"body\" dir=\"auto\"><span>I am afraid of the train stuck <\/span><br \/>\n<span>in the mud, sliding off track, <\/span><br \/>\n<span>traveling back while the 19th century <\/span><br \/>\n<span>reverends wipe their brows with white cloths,<\/span><br \/>\n<span>books struck from my daughter&#8217;s hands,<\/span><br \/>\n<span>of everyone I love <\/span><br \/>\n<span>losing their minds. <\/span><\/p>\n<p class=\"body\" dir=\"auto\"><span><em>She looks cozy<\/em> my daughter says<\/span><br \/>\n<span>As we stand in front of <em>The New Novel,<\/em><\/span><em><br \/>\n<\/em><span><em>I wonder if she&#8217;s reading<\/em> All-of-a-Kind Family,<\/span><br \/>\n<span><em>the part where the sisters hunt buttons.<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n<p class=\"body\" dir=\"auto\"><span>This woman has no part in her hair, her ear lit <\/span><br \/>\n<span>by sunlight, buttons meander <\/span><br \/>\n<span>down her front like stepping stones across <\/span><br \/>\n<span>a river, her dress shifts and folds <\/span><br \/>\n<span>the breeze, the forest seems lighter today. <\/span><\/p>\n<p class=\"body\" dir=\"auto\"><span>I want someone to greet me. I think <\/span><br \/>\n<span>there is an old love letter I should reread.<\/span><\/p>\n<p class=\"body\" dir=\"auto\"><span>This time I see how young she is.<\/span><br \/>\n<span>Fire flows over her hips, the woods <\/span><br \/>\n<span>pant with desire, the painter too close. <\/span><br \/>\n<span>I am more aware <\/span><br \/>\n<span>of her power now, how she is bigger <\/span><br \/>\n<span>than anything else in the world.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div><\/div><\/div>\t\t<\/div>\r\n\t\t\t<\/article>\r\n\t<article class=\"w-grid-item size_1x1 post-2646 poem type-poem status-publish hentry\" data-id=\"2646\">\r\n\t\t<div class=\"w-grid-item-h\">\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"w-vwrapper usg_vwrapper_3 align_none valign_top\" style=\"--vwrapper-gap:0rem\"><div class=\"w-vwrapper usg_vwrapper_1 poem-content align_none valign_top\"><h2 class=\"w-post-elm post_title usg_post_title_1 entry-title color_link_inherit\">The Heroin Addict on 77th and Aurora with the Cardboard Sign<\/h2><div class=\"w-post-elm post_custom_field usg_post_custom_field_1 poem-source type_text poem_source color_link_inherit\"><span class=\"w-post-elm-before\">Published in <\/span><a target=\"_blank\" href=\"https:\/\/www.moriaonline.com\/issue-five-600638\/2020\/4\/27\/the-heroin-addict-on-77th-and-aurora-with-the-cardboard-sign-by-deborah-bacharach\"><span class=\"w-post-elm-value\">Moria<\/span><\/a><\/div><div class=\"w-post-elm post_content usg_post_content_1\"><p><img loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\" wp-image-2647 aligncenter\" src=\"https:\/\/yayserver.com\/debbiebacharach\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/07\/TheHeroinAddicton77thandAurorawiththeCardboardSignShayneSchultz-300x200.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"486\" height=\"324\" srcset=\"https:\/\/yayserver.com\/debbiebacharach\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/07\/TheHeroinAddicton77thandAurorawiththeCardboardSignShayneSchultz-300x200.jpg 300w, https:\/\/yayserver.com\/debbiebacharach\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/07\/TheHeroinAddicton77thandAurorawiththeCardboardSignShayneSchultz-1024x683.jpg 1024w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 486px) 100vw, 486px\" \/><\/p>\n<p class=\"\">The Heroin Addict on 77th and Aurora with the Cardboard Sign<\/p>\n<p class=\"\">She asks for peace.<br \/>\nPeace, $, junk. She lays out<br \/>\nher whole kit,<br \/>\na small mirror, lipstick.<\/p>\n<p class=\"\">She knows to worry<br \/>\nabout that house. They hang<br \/>\ntheir clothes in the front yard,<br \/>\nleave them in the rain. They smile<br \/>\nat kids near their drenched<br \/>\nlong underwear, blackberry thorns.<br \/>\nThey have four carved pumpkins on their front porch,<br \/>\na dead mouse on the stairs.<\/p>\n<p class=\"\">She misses the way bodies can fit together, the heat<br \/>\nas a lover spoons her. She misses<br \/>\nthe smell of her daughter&#8217;s scalp as the girl nestles<br \/>\nher head to her breasts.<\/p>\n<p class=\"\">She has a second bra, a washcloth, herbal soap<br \/>\nthat takes her to a day at Talapus Lake,<br \/>\nwhere evergreens would never stoop<br \/>\nto be fenceposts, broken at that.<br \/>\nBut she\u2019s not there. She\u2019s here.<\/p>\n<p class=\"\">In hell they pass out plastic cups<br \/>\nof creamsicle with no spoon just a half-sized<br \/>\nwooden tongue depressor and you stand<br \/>\nin a deserted school hallway to eat while you wait<br \/>\nfor the pick-up that will never come and even<br \/>\nin your agony,<br \/>\nthe terror and betrayal, part of you thinks,<br \/>\nthis tastes good.<\/p>\n<\/div><\/div><\/div>\t\t<\/div>\r\n\t\t\t<\/article>\r\n\t<article class=\"w-grid-item size_1x1 post-2645 poem type-poem status-publish hentry\" data-id=\"2645\">\r\n\t\t<div class=\"w-grid-item-h\">\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"w-vwrapper usg_vwrapper_3 align_none valign_top\" style=\"--vwrapper-gap:0rem\"><div class=\"w-vwrapper usg_vwrapper_1 poem-content align_none valign_top\"><h2 class=\"w-post-elm post_title usg_post_title_1 entry-title color_link_inherit\">For My Friend, Grieving<\/h2><div class=\"w-post-elm post_custom_field usg_post_custom_field_1 poem-source type_text poem_source color_link_inherit\"><span class=\"w-post-elm-before\">Published in <\/span><a target=\"_blank\" href=\"https:\/\/ciderpressreview.com\/cpr-volume-16-2\/for-my-friend-grieving\/#.VLHGw1p42sE\"><span class=\"w-post-elm-value\">Cider Press Review, Volume 16, Issue 2<\/span><\/a><\/div><div class=\"w-post-elm post_content usg_post_content_1\"><p>1. For me grief<\/p>\n<p>has been a pudding pop. The first bite<br \/>\nmade me think there might be something<br \/>\nthere,<\/p>\n<p>but by the second, the third,<\/p>\n<p>just empty<\/p>\n<p>calories. After awhile, I didn\u2019t even notice<br \/>\nI was no longer at the table.<\/p>\n<p>You, my darling, you\u2019ve got the Sachertorte of grief,<br \/>\nevery bite an explosion to the senses,<br \/>\nevery bite calling<br \/>\nfor more.<\/p>\n<p>You must sit at this table<br \/>\nwith the limp balloons, the brief flashes of fire<br \/>\nand eat and eat alone.<\/p>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<p>2. I know nothing about grieving, but I read a romance novel<\/p>\n<p>set in the cowboy west and the grieving widow<br \/>\nhad to wear a year of black.<br \/>\nI can see the point of that.<\/p>\n<p>But, I must admit, the widow in this book<br \/>\nwasn\u2019t actually grieving her abusive husband<br \/>\n(who keeled over at the whorehouse<br \/>\nin flagrante delicto.) She was grieving<br \/>\nhow bad her life had been and then a former student<br \/>\n(I know, I know, kinky) came to town<br \/>\nriding a bad reputation, and you can guess<br \/>\nwhere they wound up. I can loan you the book.<\/p>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<p>3. What would Donald Hall do?<\/p>\n<p>Screw.<\/p>\n<p>After Jane Kenyon kicked it, he went for<br \/>\nmeaningless sex.<br \/>\nHow do I know? He told us so<br \/>\nat the public reading on Second. Perhaps,<br \/>\neven then, he was trawling for prospects.<br \/>\nEveryone wants to comfort.<br \/>\nYou could take out an ad:<\/p>\n<p>Needs to be fucked senseless.<br \/>\nHas own room.<br \/>\nIgnore screaming.<\/p>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<p>4. I\u2019m thinking you should eat your baby.<\/p>\n<p>He is what\u2019s left of her.<br \/>\nMaybe ingesting a finger at a time<br \/>\nwould calm that craving.<br \/>\nOf course, the problem\u2013<br \/>\nafter a month of parceling out thighs and rump,<br \/>\nof slowly chewing down cartilage,<br \/>\nhe\u2019d be gone. Kids on the plastic yellow slide,<br \/>\nkids at the Stop-n-Shop, kids almost asleep<br \/>\nin their strollers while their mothers hum<br \/>\nlullabies your lover did not two a.m. hum,<br \/>\nwould not suffice.<\/p>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<p>5. I know you don\u2019t drink, but<\/p>\n<p>Grief might like a pint.<br \/>\nSelf-cutting? Leeches?<br \/>\nI\u2019m just brainstorming now.<br \/>\nI think I saw a barbershop,<\/p>\n<p>up a couple streets<\/p>\n<p>and to the left.<\/p>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<p>6. May I offer a swift kick to the head?<\/p>\n<p>The DMS-IV has classified deep grief<br \/>\nsix months after the instigating incident<br \/>\nas pathological.<\/p>\n<p>(See Adjustment Disorders 309-309.9).<\/p>\n<p>So, you\u2019ve got to stop wallowing,<br \/>\nor they\u2019ll drug you<br \/>\nand pull your kid.<\/p>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<p style=\"text-align: center;\">7. Let\u2019s play pick a clich\u00e9<br \/>\nStep right up! Step right up! Spin the wheel! Take your chances!<\/p>\n<p style=\"text-align: center;\">Everything happens for the best.<br \/>\nAn apple a day. \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 Time heals all wounds.<br \/>\nOne day at a time. \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 Tomorrow is another day.<br \/>\nJust like riding a bicycle. \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 A stitch in time saves nine.<br \/>\nYou can\u2019t always \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 get what you want.<br \/>\nKeep on keeping on. \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 Give it the old college try.<br \/>\nLet\u2019s get the show \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 on the road.<br \/>\nAbsence makes \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 the heart grow fonder.<br \/>\nBetter to have loved and lost.<\/p>\n<p style=\"text-align: center;\">The carny has pegged you for a rube.<\/p>\n<p>8. I remember your love\u2019s bright blue frames<\/p>\n<p>Do you remember the witch who offered<br \/>\nto pluck a day from your overburdened brain?<br \/>\nSure no one wants to give up<br \/>\nthe hike with fifteen switchbacks,<br \/>\nkissing at every corner. But what about<br \/>\nstuck in the airport when the kid<br \/>\nthrows himself on the floor and howls<br \/>\nand your love turns her shoulder<br \/>\nbut not before you see the scowl.<br \/>\nChemo day. Chemo day after day.<br \/>\nThe witch offered to wipe away a day,<br \/>\nto take every color, every sound,<br \/>\nto take the pain.<\/p>\n<p>You refrained.<\/p>\n<\/div><\/div><\/div>\t\t<\/div>\r\n\t\t\t<\/article>\r\n\t<article class=\"w-grid-item size_1x1 post-2641 poem type-poem status-publish hentry\" data-id=\"2641\">\r\n\t\t<div class=\"w-grid-item-h\">\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"w-vwrapper usg_vwrapper_3 align_none valign_top\" style=\"--vwrapper-gap:0rem\"><div class=\"w-vwrapper usg_vwrapper_1 poem-content align_none valign_top\"><h2 class=\"w-post-elm post_title usg_post_title_1 entry-title color_link_inherit\">Enduring Power<\/h2><div class=\"w-post-elm post_custom_field usg_post_custom_field_1 poem-source type_text poem_source color_link_inherit\"><span class=\"w-post-elm-before\">Published in <\/span><a target=\"_blank\" href=\"https:\/\/rivermouthreview.com\/issue-13-portals\/deborahbacharach\"><span class=\"w-post-elm-value\">River Mouth Reviews<\/span><\/a><\/div><div class=\"w-post-elm post_content usg_post_content_1\"><p class=\"\">My mother has signed<br \/>\nthe forms. I have bent over<br \/>\nand signed as well.<br \/>\nI have sworn<\/p>\n<p class=\"\">to guard the curtain<br \/>\nbetween her and the hereafter,<br \/>\nto pin the curtain aside.<\/p>\n<p class=\"\">When I was a child, I would hide<br \/>\nunder department store carousels,<br \/>\npress my cheek against<br \/>\nthe hems of grown-up dresses<br \/>\nthe soft cotton anchor stitch.<\/p>\n<p class=\"\">I felt so safe in the shadows<br \/>\nout of time<br \/>\nwhile I could always<br \/>\npull the curtain aside and find<br \/>\nthe dressing rooms, the mirrors,<br \/>\nmother after mother after<br \/>\nbeautiful swirling mother.<\/p>\n<\/div><\/div><\/div>\t\t<\/div>\r\n\t\t\t<\/article>\r\n<\/div><div class=\"w-grid-preloader\">\t<div class=\"g-preloader type_1\">\r\n\t\t<div><\/div>\r\n\t<\/div>\r\n\t<\/div>\t<div class=\"w-grid-json hidden\" onclick='return {&quot;action&quot;:&quot;us_ajax_grid&quot;,&quot;infinite_scroll&quot;:0,&quot;max_num_pages&quot;:1,&quot;pagination&quot;:&quot;none&quot;,&quot;template_vars&quot;:{&quot;columns&quot;:&quot;1&quot;,&quot;exclude_items&quot;:&quot;none&quot;,&quot;img_size&quot;:&quot;default&quot;,&quot;ignore_items_size&quot;:0,&quot;items_layout&quot;:&quot;2660&quot;,&quot;items_offset&quot;:&quot;1&quot;,&quot;load_animation&quot;:&quot;none&quot;,&quot;overriding_link&quot;:&quot;%7B%22url%22%3A%22%22%7D&quot;,&quot;post_id&quot;:0,&quot;query_args&quot;:{&quot;post_type&quot;:[&quot;poem&quot;],&quot;post_status&quot;:[&quot;publish&quot;,&quot;acf-disabled&quot;],&quot;posts_per_page&quot;:999},&quot;orderby_query_args&quot;:{&quot;orderby&quot;:{&quot;title&quot;:&quot;DESC&quot;},&quot;order&quot;:&quot;DESC&quot;},&quot;type&quot;:&quot;grid&quot;,&quot;us_grid_post_type&quot;:&quot;poem&quot;,&quot;us_grid_ajax_index&quot;:2,&quot;us_grid_filter_query_string&quot;:null,&quot;us_grid_index&quot;:2,&quot;page_args&quot;:[]}}'><\/div>\r\n\t<\/div><div class=\"w-grid hide_on_default hide_on_laptops hide_on_tablets type_grid layout_2661 cols_1\" id=\"poems-mobile\" style=\"--columns:1;--gap:1.5rem;\" data-filterable=\"true\"><style>.layout_2661 .w-grid-item-h{}.layout_2661 .usg_vwrapper_2{opacity:0}.layout_2661 .w-grid-item-h:focus-within .usg_vwrapper_2,.layout_2661 .w-grid-item-h:hover .usg_vwrapper_2{}.layout_2661 .usg_vwrapper_3{}.layout_2661 .w-grid-item-h:focus-within .usg_vwrapper_3,.layout_2661 .w-grid-item-h:hover .usg_vwrapper_3{}.layout_2661 .usg_vwrapper_1{width:100%!important}.layout_2661 .usg_post_content_1{width:100%!important;padding-top:3rem!important}.layout_2661 .usg_post_title_1{margin-bottom:0!important;padding-bottom:0!important}.layout_2661 .usg_vwrapper_2{width:100%!important;position:absolute!important;left:0!important;top:0!important}.layout_2661 .usg_post_custom_field_3{font-size:1.1rem!important;font-family:Molly Glaston!important;font-style:italic!important;margin-left:3rem!important}.layout_2661 .usg_vwrapper_3{width:100%!important;position:relative!important}.layout_2661 .usg_post_content_2{width:100%!important;padding-top:3rem!important}.layout_2661 .usg_post_custom_field_5{font-size:1.1rem!important;font-family:Molly Glaston!important;font-style:italic!important;margin-left:3rem!important}.layout_2661 .usg_post_title_2{margin-bottom:0!important;padding-bottom:0!important}<\/style><div class=\"w-grid-list\">\t<article class=\"w-grid-item size_1x1 post-2656 poem type-poem status-publish hentry\" data-id=\"2656\">\r\n\t\t<div class=\"w-grid-item-h\">\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"w-vwrapper usg_vwrapper_3\" style=\"--vwrapper-gap:0rem\"><div class=\"w-vwrapper usg_vwrapper_1 poem-content poem-english\"><h2 class=\"w-post-elm post_title usg_post_title_1 entry-title color_link_inherit\">Shake and Tremor<\/h2><div class=\"w-post-elm post_custom_field usg_post_custom_field_3 type_text subtitle color_link_inherit\"><span class=\"w-post-elm-value\"><\/span><\/div><div class=\"w-post-elm post_content usg_post_content_1\"><p><a ref=\"magnificPopup\" href=\"https:\/\/yayserver.com\/debbiebacharach\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/08\/Jardins-dHiver-Hermes-Silk-Scarf-NIB-4.webp\"><img loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone wp-image-2990 size-medium\" src=\"https:\/\/yayserver.com\/debbiebacharach\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/08\/Jardins-dHiver-Hermes-Silk-Scarf-NIB-4-300x300.webp\" alt=\"\" width=\"300\" height=\"300\" srcset=\"https:\/\/yayserver.com\/debbiebacharach\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/08\/Jardins-dHiver-Hermes-Silk-Scarf-NIB-4-300x300.webp 300w, https:\/\/yayserver.com\/debbiebacharach\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/08\/Jardins-dHiver-Hermes-Silk-Scarf-NIB-4-1024x1024.webp 1024w, https:\/\/yayserver.com\/debbiebacharach\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/08\/Jardins-dHiver-Hermes-Silk-Scarf-NIB-4-150x150.webp 150w, https:\/\/yayserver.com\/debbiebacharach\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/08\/Jardins-dHiver-Hermes-Silk-Scarf-NIB-4-1320x1320.webp 1320w, https:\/\/yayserver.com\/debbiebacharach\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/08\/Jardins-dHiver-Hermes-Silk-Scarf-NIB-4.webp 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 300px) 100vw, 300px\" \/><\/a><\/p>\n<p><em>But Lot\u2019s wife looked back, and she became a pillar of salt.<\/em><\/p>\n<p>\u2014Genesis 19:26<\/p>\n<p>Still the blue heron lifts long legs over early morning.<br \/>\nStill the blue green boulders filled with barnacles.<br \/>\nStill the green ropes of sea.<br \/>\nStill rivulets in the sand, remnants of the night.<br \/>\nStill I believe in the power of lust,<br \/>\nthe full shake and tremor of living<br \/>\non a moving planet that revolves around a ball of fire.<br \/>\nStill the crabs small and white like moons in need<br \/>\nlike promises unspoken<br \/>\nor promises spoken and unfulfilled.<br \/>\nStill I wish to be swallowed whole by the sea.<br \/>\nStill the sea, the spume and crash of the sea.<br \/>\nStill the salt rich water coating my skin.<br \/>\nStill my porous skin.<\/p>\n<\/div><\/div><div class=\"w-vwrapper usg_vwrapper_2 poem-content poem-spanish\"><h2 class=\"w-post-elm post_title usg_post_title_2 entry-title color_link_inherit\">Shake and Tremor<\/h2><div class=\"w-post-elm post_custom_field usg_post_custom_field_5 type_text subtitle color_link_inherit\"><span class=\"w-post-elm-value\"><\/span><\/div><div class=\"w-post-elm post_content usg_post_content_2\"><p><a ref=\"magnificPopup\" href=\"https:\/\/yayserver.com\/debbiebacharach\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/08\/Jardins-dHiver-Hermes-Silk-Scarf-NIB-4.webp\"><img loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"alignnone wp-image-2990 size-medium\" src=\"https:\/\/yayserver.com\/debbiebacharach\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/08\/Jardins-dHiver-Hermes-Silk-Scarf-NIB-4-300x300.webp\" alt=\"\" width=\"300\" height=\"300\" srcset=\"https:\/\/yayserver.com\/debbiebacharach\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/08\/Jardins-dHiver-Hermes-Silk-Scarf-NIB-4-300x300.webp 300w, https:\/\/yayserver.com\/debbiebacharach\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/08\/Jardins-dHiver-Hermes-Silk-Scarf-NIB-4-1024x1024.webp 1024w, https:\/\/yayserver.com\/debbiebacharach\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/08\/Jardins-dHiver-Hermes-Silk-Scarf-NIB-4-150x150.webp 150w, https:\/\/yayserver.com\/debbiebacharach\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/08\/Jardins-dHiver-Hermes-Silk-Scarf-NIB-4-1320x1320.webp 1320w, https:\/\/yayserver.com\/debbiebacharach\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/08\/Jardins-dHiver-Hermes-Silk-Scarf-NIB-4.webp 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 300px) 100vw, 300px\" \/><\/a><\/p>\n<p><em>But Lot\u2019s wife looked back, and she became a pillar of salt.<\/em><\/p>\n<p>\u2014Genesis 19:26<\/p>\n<p>Still the blue heron lifts long legs over early morning.<br \/>\nStill the blue green boulders filled with barnacles.<br \/>\nStill the green ropes of sea.<br \/>\nStill rivulets in the sand, remnants of the night.<br \/>\nStill I believe in the power of lust,<br \/>\nthe full shake and tremor of living<br \/>\non a moving planet that revolves around a ball of fire.<br \/>\nStill the crabs small and white like moons in need<br \/>\nlike promises unspoken<br \/>\nor promises spoken and unfulfilled.<br \/>\nStill I wish to be swallowed whole by the sea.<br \/>\nStill the sea, the spume and crash of the sea.<br \/>\nStill the salt rich water coating my skin.<br \/>\nStill my porous skin.<\/p>\n<\/div><\/div><\/div>\t\t<\/div>\r\n\t\t\t<\/article>\r\n\t<article class=\"w-grid-item size_1x1 post-2648 poem type-poem status-publish hentry\" data-id=\"2648\">\r\n\t\t<div class=\"w-grid-item-h\">\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"w-vwrapper usg_vwrapper_3\" style=\"--vwrapper-gap:0rem\"><div class=\"w-vwrapper usg_vwrapper_1 poem-content poem-english\"><h2 class=\"w-post-elm post_title usg_post_title_1 entry-title color_link_inherit\">The Jewish Mathematicians<\/h2><div class=\"w-post-elm post_custom_field usg_post_custom_field_3 type_text subtitle color_link_inherit\"><span class=\"w-post-elm-value\"><\/span><\/div><div class=\"w-post-elm post_content usg_post_content_1\"><div style=\"width: 1140px;\" class=\"wp-video\"><video class=\"wp-video-shortcode\" id=\"video-2648-2\" width=\"1140\" height=\"641\" preload=\"metadata\" controls=\"controls\"><source type=\"video\/mp4\" src=\"https:\/\/yayserver.com\/debbiebacharach\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/08\/2209362_Aerial_Volcanic_1280x720.mp4?_=2\" \/><a href=\"https:\/\/yayserver.com\/debbiebacharach\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/08\/2209362_Aerial_Volcanic_1280x720.mp4\">https:\/\/yayserver.com\/debbiebacharach\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/08\/2209362_Aerial_Volcanic_1280x720.mp4<\/a><\/video><\/div>\n<p>We all had lice back then<br \/>\nin our unwashed jacket pockets,<br \/>\ncrawling along the stained seams<br \/>\nof our handsewn shirts and basted<br \/>\nbuttonholes as we lectured<br \/>\non combinatorics at the University of Lviv<br \/>\nbefore it was shut down by Nazis.<\/p>\n<p>The Nazis hired Dr. Weigle.<br \/>\nDr. Weigle hired us who used to sit<br \/>\nquiet, pencils scratching in the Polish coffee shops<br \/>\n(now closed or filled with Nazis)<br \/>\nto sit in his lab, caged lice on our legs.<\/p>\n<p>If you didn&#8217;t scratch, you wouldn&#8217;t die,<br \/>\nthat day. Mathematicians, we would<br \/>\nsink deep into the fourth dimension,<br \/>\nthe one without hunger or fear, our daughters<br \/>\nstill in pirouette. We would do what<\/p>\n<p>we have always done since<br \/>\nEuclid, Pythagoras, Archimedes\u2014<br \/>\nfind a lever big enough,<br \/>\nprepare to move the world.<\/p>\n<\/div><\/div><div class=\"w-vwrapper usg_vwrapper_2 poem-content poem-spanish\"><h2 class=\"w-post-elm post_title usg_post_title_2 entry-title color_link_inherit\">The Jewish Mathematicians<\/h2><div class=\"w-post-elm post_custom_field usg_post_custom_field_5 type_text subtitle color_link_inherit\"><span class=\"w-post-elm-value\"><\/span><\/div><div class=\"w-post-elm post_content usg_post_content_2\"><div style=\"width: 1140px;\" class=\"wp-video\"><video class=\"wp-video-shortcode\" id=\"video-2648-3\" width=\"1140\" height=\"641\" preload=\"metadata\" controls=\"controls\"><source type=\"video\/mp4\" src=\"https:\/\/yayserver.com\/debbiebacharach\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/08\/2209362_Aerial_Volcanic_1280x720.mp4?_=3\" \/><a href=\"https:\/\/yayserver.com\/debbiebacharach\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/08\/2209362_Aerial_Volcanic_1280x720.mp4\">https:\/\/yayserver.com\/debbiebacharach\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/08\/2209362_Aerial_Volcanic_1280x720.mp4<\/a><\/video><\/div>\n<p>We all had lice back then<br \/>\nin our unwashed jacket pockets,<br \/>\ncrawling along the stained seams<br \/>\nof our handsewn shirts and basted<br \/>\nbuttonholes as we lectured<br \/>\non combinatorics at the University of Lviv<br \/>\nbefore it was shut down by Nazis.<\/p>\n<p>The Nazis hired Dr. Weigle.<br \/>\nDr. Weigle hired us who used to sit<br \/>\nquiet, pencils scratching in the Polish coffee shops<br \/>\n(now closed or filled with Nazis)<br \/>\nto sit in his lab, caged lice on our legs.<\/p>\n<p>If you didn&#8217;t scratch, you wouldn&#8217;t die,<br \/>\nthat day. Mathematicians, we would<br \/>\nsink deep into the fourth dimension,<br \/>\nthe one without hunger or fear, our daughters<br \/>\nstill in pirouette. We would do what<\/p>\n<p>we have always done since<br \/>\nEuclid, Pythagoras, Archimedes\u2014<br \/>\nfind a lever big enough,<br \/>\nprepare to move the world.<\/p>\n<\/div><\/div><\/div>\t\t<\/div>\r\n\t\t\t<\/article>\r\n\t<article class=\"w-grid-item size_1x1 post-2654 poem type-poem status-publish hentry\" data-id=\"2654\">\r\n\t\t<div class=\"w-grid-item-h\">\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"w-vwrapper usg_vwrapper_3\" style=\"--vwrapper-gap:0rem\"><div class=\"w-vwrapper usg_vwrapper_1 poem-content poem-english\"><h2 class=\"w-post-elm post_title usg_post_title_1 entry-title color_link_inherit\">Self-Portrait: A Cloud<\/h2><div class=\"w-post-elm post_custom_field usg_post_custom_field_3 type_text subtitle color_link_inherit\"><span class=\"w-post-elm-value\"><\/span><\/div><div class=\"w-post-elm post_content usg_post_content_1\"><p>that makes the infinite<br \/>\nbearable, water in the desert,<br \/>\nlovely<br \/>\nand fleeting,<br \/>\nas is so much.<\/p>\n<p>Who is alone and afraid?<\/p>\n<p>All will fall in the sand\u2014oarlocks, scavengers,<br \/>\nthe ripped bird\u2019s wing.<\/p>\n<p>Mandela says,<br \/>\nYour playing small does not serve the world.<\/p>\n<p>When the heat-soaked banks<br \/>\nwith their ogre-arms<br \/>\nhurl stone silence at you,<br \/>\nknow my name.<\/p>\n<\/div><\/div><div class=\"w-vwrapper usg_vwrapper_2 poem-content poem-spanish\"><h2 class=\"w-post-elm post_title usg_post_title_2 entry-title color_link_inherit\">Self-Portrait: A Cloud<\/h2><div class=\"w-post-elm post_custom_field usg_post_custom_field_5 type_text subtitle color_link_inherit\"><span class=\"w-post-elm-value\"><\/span><\/div><div class=\"w-post-elm post_content usg_post_content_2\"><p>that makes the infinite<br \/>\nbearable, water in the desert,<br \/>\nlovely<br \/>\nand fleeting,<br \/>\nas is so much.<\/p>\n<p>Who is alone and afraid?<\/p>\n<p>All will fall in the sand\u2014oarlocks, scavengers,<br \/>\nthe ripped bird\u2019s wing.<\/p>\n<p>Mandela says,<br \/>\nYour playing small does not serve the world.<\/p>\n<p>When the heat-soaked banks<br \/>\nwith their ogre-arms<br \/>\nhurl stone silence at you,<br \/>\nknow my name.<\/p>\n<\/div><\/div><\/div>\t\t<\/div>\r\n\t\t\t<\/article>\r\n\t<article class=\"w-grid-item size_1x1 post-2655 poem type-poem status-publish hentry\" data-id=\"2655\">\r\n\t\t<div class=\"w-grid-item-h\">\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"w-vwrapper usg_vwrapper_3\" style=\"--vwrapper-gap:0rem\"><div class=\"w-vwrapper usg_vwrapper_1 poem-content poem-english\"><h2 class=\"w-post-elm post_title usg_post_title_1 entry-title color_link_inherit\">Scrubbed<\/h2><div class=\"w-post-elm post_custom_field usg_post_custom_field_3 type_text subtitle color_link_inherit\"><span class=\"w-post-elm-value\"><\/span><\/div><div class=\"w-post-elm post_content usg_post_content_1\"><p>The pot, having been useful<br \/>\nin the way objects with one job and not another can be useful,<br \/>\nwhich is to say melting golden onions, a low hum of spices,<br \/>\nwaits to be washed. If I heft it<br \/>\nonce more from stove to sink, I\u2019ll be done in,<br \/>\nfailure of planning and prioritization, i.e.<br \/>\nweightlifting is supposed to happen every T, TH, 10 a.m.<br \/>\nbut doesn\u2019t. The pot\u2019s not a real Le Creuset. Those cost<br \/>\nmore than I\u2019m willing to spend. But the job gets done.<\/p>\n<p>I didn\u2019t say I didn\u2019t have a job.<br \/>\nFor three minutes today, I tutored<br \/>\na midwifery student on prepositions<br \/>\nin an evidence-based practice. Because it involves<br \/>\ngetting up at 4 a.m. which would wound our days,<br \/>\nthe biting comments to our kids, the compensating calories,<br \/>\nmy sister tells my mom we can\u2019t drive her to the airport<br \/>\nat 5 in the morning. When the sponge slides<br \/>\ninside the white of the Dutch oven, first<br \/>\nthe warm bubbles snuggling then the scrub down<br \/>\nthe red deep smooth sides of the empty supper pot, it\u2019s like<br \/>\na lesson in perception. Know your colors. Reconcile yourself.<\/p>\n<p>The house smells like candles. \u201cIt\u2019s my birthday!\u201d I say.<br \/>\nIt\u2019s not. My birthday over, nothing left to celebrate, I rinse the pot, heave it<br \/>\nback on the stove, sweet mint lingers in the corner of my mouth,<br \/>\nwater swirls clear of the drain. I hold close the damp dish cloth.<br \/>\nI\u2019m not a sign language interpreter for the UN, which Grandma Adele<br \/>\nsuggested over lunch at Neiman\u2019s was better than teaching<br \/>\ncommunity college crazies. I have never hosted a B\u2019Nai Brith luncheon for fifty or flown to Timbuktu.<\/p>\n<p>Every childhood morning my mother<br \/>\nscrubbed burnt oatmeal off the bottom of the pan.<br \/>\nAt work she slipped her hand in a puppet, hid behind a felt curtain,<br \/>\nmade the crocodile cackle.<\/p>\n<\/div><\/div><div class=\"w-vwrapper usg_vwrapper_2 poem-content poem-spanish\"><h2 class=\"w-post-elm post_title usg_post_title_2 entry-title color_link_inherit\">Scrubbed<\/h2><div class=\"w-post-elm post_custom_field usg_post_custom_field_5 type_text subtitle color_link_inherit\"><span class=\"w-post-elm-value\"><\/span><\/div><div class=\"w-post-elm post_content usg_post_content_2\"><p>The pot, having been useful<br \/>\nin the way objects with one job and not another can be useful,<br \/>\nwhich is to say melting golden onions, a low hum of spices,<br \/>\nwaits to be washed. If I heft it<br \/>\nonce more from stove to sink, I\u2019ll be done in,<br \/>\nfailure of planning and prioritization, i.e.<br \/>\nweightlifting is supposed to happen every T, TH, 10 a.m.<br \/>\nbut doesn\u2019t. The pot\u2019s not a real Le Creuset. Those cost<br \/>\nmore than I\u2019m willing to spend. But the job gets done.<\/p>\n<p>I didn\u2019t say I didn\u2019t have a job.<br \/>\nFor three minutes today, I tutored<br \/>\na midwifery student on prepositions<br \/>\nin an evidence-based practice. Because it involves<br \/>\ngetting up at 4 a.m. which would wound our days,<br \/>\nthe biting comments to our kids, the compensating calories,<br \/>\nmy sister tells my mom we can\u2019t drive her to the airport<br \/>\nat 5 in the morning. When the sponge slides<br \/>\ninside the white of the Dutch oven, first<br \/>\nthe warm bubbles snuggling then the scrub down<br \/>\nthe red deep smooth sides of the empty supper pot, it\u2019s like<br \/>\na lesson in perception. Know your colors. Reconcile yourself.<\/p>\n<p>The house smells like candles. \u201cIt\u2019s my birthday!\u201d I say.<br \/>\nIt\u2019s not. My birthday over, nothing left to celebrate, I rinse the pot, heave it<br \/>\nback on the stove, sweet mint lingers in the corner of my mouth,<br \/>\nwater swirls clear of the drain. I hold close the damp dish cloth.<br \/>\nI\u2019m not a sign language interpreter for the UN, which Grandma Adele<br \/>\nsuggested over lunch at Neiman\u2019s was better than teaching<br \/>\ncommunity college crazies. I have never hosted a B\u2019Nai Brith luncheon for fifty or flown to Timbuktu.<\/p>\n<p>Every childhood morning my mother<br \/>\nscrubbed burnt oatmeal off the bottom of the pan.<br \/>\nAt work she slipped her hand in a puppet, hid behind a felt curtain,<br \/>\nmade the crocodile cackle.<\/p>\n<\/div><\/div><\/div>\t\t<\/div>\r\n\t\t\t<\/article>\r\n\t<article class=\"w-grid-item size_1x1 post-2982 poem type-poem status-publish hentry\" data-id=\"2982\">\r\n\t\t<div class=\"w-grid-item-h\">\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"w-vwrapper usg_vwrapper_3\" style=\"--vwrapper-gap:0rem\"><div class=\"w-vwrapper usg_vwrapper_1 poem-content poem-english\"><h2 class=\"w-post-elm post_title usg_post_title_1 entry-title color_link_inherit\">New poem<\/h2><div class=\"w-post-elm post_custom_field usg_post_custom_field_3 type_text subtitle color_link_inherit\"><span class=\"w-post-elm-value\"><\/span><\/div><div class=\"w-post-elm post_content usg_post_content_1\"><p>sfe fwerewr wer twertwrt ewrt wrt<\/p>\n<\/div><\/div><div class=\"w-vwrapper usg_vwrapper_2 poem-content poem-spanish\"><h2 class=\"w-post-elm post_title usg_post_title_2 entry-title color_link_inherit\">New poem<\/h2><div class=\"w-post-elm post_custom_field usg_post_custom_field_5 type_text subtitle color_link_inherit\"><span class=\"w-post-elm-value\"><\/span><\/div><div class=\"w-post-elm post_content usg_post_content_2\"><p>sfe fwerewr wer twertwrt ewrt wrt<\/p>\n<\/div><\/div><\/div>\t\t<\/div>\r\n\t\t\t<\/article>\r\n\t<article class=\"w-grid-item size_1x1 post-2653 poem type-poem status-publish hentry\" data-id=\"2653\">\r\n\t\t<div class=\"w-grid-item-h\">\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"w-vwrapper usg_vwrapper_3\" style=\"--vwrapper-gap:0rem\"><div class=\"w-vwrapper usg_vwrapper_1 poem-content poem-english\"><h2 class=\"w-post-elm post_title usg_post_title_1 entry-title color_link_inherit\">Tuned<\/h2><div class=\"w-post-elm post_custom_field usg_post_custom_field_3 type_text subtitle color_link_inherit\"><span class=\"w-post-elm-value\"><\/span><\/div><div class=\"w-post-elm post_content usg_post_content_1\"><p>He dusts my nipples<br \/>\nas though they are piano keys.<br \/>\nAs though he has never heard<br \/>\nRachmaninoff\u2019s Prelude<br \/>\nOpus 23, No. 5<br \/>\nin G minor.<br \/>\nHard notes. Marcato.<br \/>\nPoco meno mosso.<br \/>\nHarder.<\/p>\n<\/div><\/div><div class=\"w-vwrapper usg_vwrapper_2 poem-content poem-spanish\"><h2 class=\"w-post-elm post_title usg_post_title_2 entry-title color_link_inherit\">Tuned<\/h2><div class=\"w-post-elm post_custom_field usg_post_custom_field_5 type_text subtitle color_link_inherit\"><span class=\"w-post-elm-value\"><\/span><\/div><div class=\"w-post-elm post_content usg_post_content_2\"><p>He dusts my nipples<br \/>\nas though they are piano keys.<br \/>\nAs though he has never heard<br \/>\nRachmaninoff\u2019s Prelude<br \/>\nOpus 23, No. 5<br \/>\nin G minor.<br \/>\nHard notes. Marcato.<br \/>\nPoco meno mosso.<br \/>\nHarder.<\/p>\n<\/div><\/div><\/div>\t\t<\/div>\r\n\t\t\t<\/article>\r\n\t<article class=\"w-grid-item size_1x1 post-2650 poem type-poem status-publish hentry\" data-id=\"2650\">\r\n\t\t<div class=\"w-grid-item-h\">\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"w-vwrapper usg_vwrapper_3\" style=\"--vwrapper-gap:0rem\"><div class=\"w-vwrapper usg_vwrapper_1 poem-content poem-english\"><h2 class=\"w-post-elm post_title usg_post_title_1 entry-title color_link_inherit\">My Inner Punk Rock Skateboarder Stands in Front of Rothko<\/h2><div class=\"w-post-elm post_custom_field usg_post_custom_field_3 type_text subtitle color_link_inherit\"><span class=\"w-post-elm-value\"><\/span><\/div><div class=\"w-post-elm post_content usg_post_content_1\"><p>In the crack<br \/>\nI exist. You\u2019ve seen me.<br \/>\nYou know I am a fist.<br \/>\nWhen I refuse to be naked,<br \/>\nI will be put up against the wall.<\/p>\n<p>If I roll the word shit<br \/>\naround\u00a0in my mouth if I suck<br \/>\non it, chew on it,\u00a0I will at least not care<br \/>\nit\u2019s killing me. I wish<br \/>\nI could disappear into the black<br \/>\nmarks that become the frame<br \/>\nof faces that maybe if I could<br \/>\nkeep pushing back\u00a0far enough<br \/>\nbecome human. My body the only truth<br \/>\nmy body the only way to tag<br \/>\nI have lived with love.<br \/>\nI am plummeting.<\/p>\n<\/div><\/div><div class=\"w-vwrapper usg_vwrapper_2 poem-content poem-spanish\"><h2 class=\"w-post-elm post_title usg_post_title_2 entry-title color_link_inherit\">My Inner Punk Rock Skateboarder Stands in Front of Rothko<\/h2><div class=\"w-post-elm post_custom_field usg_post_custom_field_5 type_text subtitle color_link_inherit\"><span class=\"w-post-elm-value\"><\/span><\/div><div class=\"w-post-elm post_content usg_post_content_2\"><p>In the crack<br \/>\nI exist. You\u2019ve seen me.<br \/>\nYou know I am a fist.<br \/>\nWhen I refuse to be naked,<br \/>\nI will be put up against the wall.<\/p>\n<p>If I roll the word shit<br \/>\naround\u00a0in my mouth if I suck<br \/>\non it, chew on it,\u00a0I will at least not care<br \/>\nit\u2019s killing me. I wish<br \/>\nI could disappear into the black<br \/>\nmarks that become the frame<br \/>\nof faces that maybe if I could<br \/>\nkeep pushing back\u00a0far enough<br \/>\nbecome human. My body the only truth<br \/>\nmy body the only way to tag<br \/>\nI have lived with love.<br \/>\nI am plummeting.<\/p>\n<\/div><\/div><\/div>\t\t<\/div>\r\n\t\t\t<\/article>\r\n\t<article class=\"w-grid-item size_1x1 post-2649 poem type-poem status-publish hentry\" data-id=\"2649\">\r\n\t\t<div class=\"w-grid-item-h\">\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"w-vwrapper usg_vwrapper_3\" style=\"--vwrapper-gap:0rem\"><div class=\"w-vwrapper usg_vwrapper_1 poem-content poem-english\"><h2 class=\"w-post-elm post_title usg_post_title_1 entry-title color_link_inherit\">Listening to Women<\/h2><div class=\"w-post-elm post_custom_field usg_post_custom_field_3 type_text subtitle color_link_inherit\"><span class=\"w-post-elm-value\"><\/span><\/div><div class=\"w-post-elm post_content usg_post_content_1\"><p dir=\"auto\"><span><em>Twenty Years Ago in Winslow Homer&#8217;s<\/em> The New Novel<\/span><\/p>\n<p class=\"body\" dir=\"auto\"><span>Book in hand, this young woman<\/span><br \/>\n<span>reclines on her side.<\/span><\/p>\n<p class=\"body\" dir=\"auto\"><span>For all we know, right now <\/span><br \/>\n<span>she walks the deck <\/span><br \/>\n<span>of a fighting ship, love&#8217;s <\/span><br \/>\n<span>swashbuckler; dances all night<\/span><br \/>\n<span>in liquid candlelight \u2014 the waltz!<\/span><br \/>\n<span>the waltz decadent!; spits elegant<\/span><br \/>\n<span>retorts from overstuffed chintz.<\/span><\/p>\n<p class=\"body\" dir=\"auto\"><span>Oh, I know. I ran away and lived <\/span><br \/>\n<span>on <em>My Side of the Mountain<\/em>, <\/span><br \/>\n<span>with a carved fishhook; transformed myself <\/span><br \/>\n<span>into a witch, with all the spells <\/span><br \/>\n<span>of <em>Jennifer, Hecate, Macbeth;<\/em><\/span><br \/>\n<span>made my first love <em>Forever.<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n<p class=\"body\" dir=\"auto\"><span>Just like the women reading <\/span><br \/>\n<span><em>The New Novel<\/em>, I go to books<\/span><br \/>\n<span>when I lose like the 5th grade spelling bee<\/span><br \/>\n<span>out on except, accept, <\/span><br \/>\n<span>back at my desk, cheeks burning.<\/span><br \/>\n<span>I ride books every plane trip locked <\/span><br \/>\n<span>and bored, constricted on all sides. <\/span><br \/>\n<span>I fall into them every night.<\/span><\/p>\n<p class=\"body\" dir=\"auto\"><span>It&#8217;s the way one leg bends,<\/span><br \/>\n<span>the reader&#8217;s white bow loose, <\/span><br \/>\n<span>her red dress looser.<\/span><br \/>\n<span>the way her face angles <\/span><br \/>\n<span>to the open page. Oh, peace.<\/span><\/p>\n<p class=\"body\" dir=\"auto\"><span><em>My Daughter Reads Books<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n<p class=\"body\" dir=\"auto\"><span>on the ugly white couch with the half-slipped cushions <\/span><br \/>\n<span>when she is supposed to be setting the table<\/span><br \/>\n<span>as she walks from kitchen to dining room,<\/span><br \/>\n<span>blue plastic plate in one hand, paperback in the other.<\/span><\/p>\n<p class=\"body\" dir=\"auto\"><span>In Winslow Homer&#8217;s time, <\/span><br \/>\n<span>just a hundred or so years before my daughter,<\/span><br \/>\n<span>the good reverends let us know<\/span><br \/>\n<span>novels burn the heart, dwarf <\/span><br \/>\n<span>the mind, pervert life&#8217;s duties until <\/span><br \/>\n<span>we slither in the hoofprints of Satan.<\/span><br \/>\n<span>My daughter slithers through books,<\/span><br \/>\n<span>a very hungry caterpillar.<\/span><\/p>\n<p class=\"body\" dir=\"auto\"><span>My daughter reads books<\/span><br \/>\n<span>surrounded by corn muffin crumbs, <\/span><br \/>\n<span>dripped syrup when she is supposed to be <\/span><br \/>\n<span>clearing the table. She reads in the rocking chair <\/span><br \/>\n<span>when she is supposed to be clearing the table.<\/span><\/p>\n<p class=\"body\" dir=\"auto\"><span>In 1860 women read the Good Book, <\/span><br \/>\n<span>a couple psalms, raised, <\/span><br \/>\n<span>as we were, to useless <\/span><br \/>\n<span>lives as Victorian gentlewoman.<\/span><br \/>\n<span>Florence Nightingale<\/span><br \/>\n<span>screamed in drawing rooms, burst<\/span><br \/>\n<span>into flames.<\/span><\/p>\n<p class=\"body\" dir=\"auto\"><span>My daughter reads books<\/span><br \/>\n<span>in the bathroom when she is supposed to be,<\/span><br \/>\n<span><em>I said now,<\/em> clearing the table.<\/span><\/p>\n<p class=\"body\" dir=\"auto\"><span>It wasn&#8217;t all judge a girl&#8217;s character<\/span><br \/>\n<span>by the books she reads. We got books<\/span><br \/>\n<span>as prizes, books as bonds, books <\/span><br \/>\n<span>our women teachers gave us<\/span><br \/>\n<span>from their own small stocked <\/span><br \/>\n<span>polished shelves. They gave us<\/span><br \/>\n<span>solace and laughter, they gave us ourselves.<\/span><\/p>\n<p class=\"body\" dir=\"auto\"><span>My daughter reads books<\/span><br \/>\n<span>waiting at the passport office,<\/span><br \/>\n<span>in the car on the way to synagogue when she is mad at me,<\/span><br \/>\n<span>in the car on the way home from synagogue no longer mad. <\/span><\/p>\n<p class=\"body\" dir=\"auto\"><span>But then there&#8217;s 1886 homeschooling pioneer <\/span><br \/>\n<span>Charlotte Mason who made sure women heard <\/span><br \/>\n<span>a woman reading a novel <\/span><br \/>\n<span>takes a knife to her innards, <\/span><br \/>\n<span>a woman&#8217;s brain&#8217;s not<\/span><br \/>\n<span>constituted like a man&#8217;s, reading sabotages <\/span><br \/>\n<span>her vital metabolic economy.<\/span><\/p>\n<p class=\"body\" dir=\"auto\"><span>My daughter reads books<\/span><br \/>\n<span>in bed,<\/span><br \/>\n<span>in bed past bedtime,<\/span><br \/>\n<span>while picking the icing off her donuts at breakfast,<\/span><br \/>\n<span>while picking her nails.<\/span><\/p>\n<p class=\"body\" dir=\"auto\"><span><em>The girl who sits for hours, poring over a novel <\/em><\/span><em><br \/>\n<\/em><span><em>to the damage of her eyes, her brain, and her <\/em><\/span><em><br \/>\n<\/em><span><em>general nervous system, is guilty<\/em><\/span><em><br \/>\n<\/em><span><em>of a lesser fault of the nature of suicide.<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n<p class=\"body\" dir=\"auto\"><span>My daughter reads books<\/span><br \/>\n<span>while I try to cut her nails,<\/span><br \/>\n<span>when the phone rings with a friend.<\/span><br \/>\n<span>when the doorbell rings.<\/span><\/p>\n<p class=\"body\" dir=\"auto\"><span>She will stun her heart, break her ovaries, <\/span><br \/>\n<span>bring on menstruation, masturbation, insanity.<\/span><br \/>\n<span>Pernicious, she draws away <\/span><br \/>\n<span>the blood for babies.<\/span><br \/>\n<span>I had babies. I read to them<\/span><br \/>\n<span>day and night.<\/span><\/p>\n<p class=\"body\" dir=\"auto\"><span>My daughter reads books<\/span><br \/>\n<span>on the couch when she is supposed to be <\/span><br \/>\n<span>clearing the books off the couch,<\/span><br \/>\n<span>in the bathtub with me reading my book.<\/span><\/p>\n<p class=\"body\" dir=\"auto\"><span><em>They Are Always Calling Our Girls Sluts<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n<p class=\"body\" dir=\"auto\"><span>She has secret passions <em>While her intense<\/em><\/span><br \/>\n<span>She doesn&#8217;t need him<\/span><br \/>\n<span><em>engagement in the book excludes <\/em><\/span><em><br \/>\n<\/em><span><em>the reader from her gaze,<\/em><\/span><br \/>\n<span>Homer needs her <em>vulnerable,<\/em><\/span><em><br \/>\n<\/em><span><em>titillating. Lying on the same plane<\/em><\/span><em><br \/>\n<\/em><span><em>as those who<\/em> are drawn in,<\/span><br \/>\n<span>succubus. <em>The buttons of her dress<\/em><\/span><br \/>\n<span><em>invite undressing, judgment. <\/em><\/span><br \/>\n<span><em>Bold red locks<\/em> fallen <\/span><br \/>\n<span>from the grace of God. Red lips, <\/span><br \/>\n<span>red dress <em>Personal pleasure<\/em><\/span><em><br \/>\n<\/em><span><em>supersedes social duty.<\/em><\/span><br \/>\n<span>Fiction <em>stirs<\/em> a provocative <\/span><br \/>\n<span>promiscuous siren. <\/span><\/p>\n<p class=\"body\" dir=\"auto\"><span>The New Novel <em>Today<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n<p class=\"body\" dir=\"auto\"><span>This time I see that she is all flames;<\/span><br \/>\n<span>the fire laces her as she lies <\/span><br \/>\n<span>in front of the abyss. That she is not afraid<\/span><br \/>\n<span>while she sinks in, does not believe<\/span><br \/>\n<span>wolves will sleek out of the forest.<\/span><\/p>\n<p class=\"body\" dir=\"auto\"><span>I am afraid of the train stuck <\/span><br \/>\n<span>in the mud, sliding off track, <\/span><br \/>\n<span>traveling back while the 19th century <\/span><br \/>\n<span>reverends wipe their brows with white cloths,<\/span><br \/>\n<span>books struck from my daughter&#8217;s hands,<\/span><br \/>\n<span>of everyone I love <\/span><br \/>\n<span>losing their minds. <\/span><\/p>\n<p class=\"body\" dir=\"auto\"><span><em>She looks cozy<\/em> my daughter says<\/span><br \/>\n<span>As we stand in front of <em>The New Novel,<\/em><\/span><em><br \/>\n<\/em><span><em>I wonder if she&#8217;s reading<\/em> All-of-a-Kind Family,<\/span><br \/>\n<span><em>the part where the sisters hunt buttons.<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n<p class=\"body\" dir=\"auto\"><span>This woman has no part in her hair, her ear lit <\/span><br \/>\n<span>by sunlight, buttons meander <\/span><br \/>\n<span>down her front like stepping stones across <\/span><br \/>\n<span>a river, her dress shifts and folds <\/span><br \/>\n<span>the breeze, the forest seems lighter today. <\/span><\/p>\n<p class=\"body\" dir=\"auto\"><span>I want someone to greet me. I think <\/span><br \/>\n<span>there is an old love letter I should reread.<\/span><\/p>\n<p class=\"body\" dir=\"auto\"><span>This time I see how young she is.<\/span><br \/>\n<span>Fire flows over her hips, the woods <\/span><br \/>\n<span>pant with desire, the painter too close. <\/span><br \/>\n<span>I am more aware <\/span><br \/>\n<span>of her power now, how she is bigger <\/span><br \/>\n<span>than anything else in the world.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div><\/div><div class=\"w-vwrapper usg_vwrapper_2 poem-content poem-spanish\"><h2 class=\"w-post-elm post_title usg_post_title_2 entry-title color_link_inherit\">Listening to Women<\/h2><div class=\"w-post-elm post_custom_field usg_post_custom_field_5 type_text subtitle color_link_inherit\"><span class=\"w-post-elm-value\"><\/span><\/div><div class=\"w-post-elm post_content usg_post_content_2\"><p dir=\"auto\"><span><em>Twenty Years Ago in Winslow Homer&#8217;s<\/em> The New Novel<\/span><\/p>\n<p class=\"body\" dir=\"auto\"><span>Book in hand, this young woman<\/span><br \/>\n<span>reclines on her side.<\/span><\/p>\n<p class=\"body\" dir=\"auto\"><span>For all we know, right now <\/span><br \/>\n<span>she walks the deck <\/span><br \/>\n<span>of a fighting ship, love&#8217;s <\/span><br \/>\n<span>swashbuckler; dances all night<\/span><br \/>\n<span>in liquid candlelight \u2014 the waltz!<\/span><br \/>\n<span>the waltz decadent!; spits elegant<\/span><br \/>\n<span>retorts from overstuffed chintz.<\/span><\/p>\n<p class=\"body\" dir=\"auto\"><span>Oh, I know. I ran away and lived <\/span><br \/>\n<span>on <em>My Side of the Mountain<\/em>, <\/span><br \/>\n<span>with a carved fishhook; transformed myself <\/span><br \/>\n<span>into a witch, with all the spells <\/span><br \/>\n<span>of <em>Jennifer, Hecate, Macbeth;<\/em><\/span><br \/>\n<span>made my first love <em>Forever.<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n<p class=\"body\" dir=\"auto\"><span>Just like the women reading <\/span><br \/>\n<span><em>The New Novel<\/em>, I go to books<\/span><br \/>\n<span>when I lose like the 5th grade spelling bee<\/span><br \/>\n<span>out on except, accept, <\/span><br \/>\n<span>back at my desk, cheeks burning.<\/span><br \/>\n<span>I ride books every plane trip locked <\/span><br \/>\n<span>and bored, constricted on all sides. <\/span><br \/>\n<span>I fall into them every night.<\/span><\/p>\n<p class=\"body\" dir=\"auto\"><span>It&#8217;s the way one leg bends,<\/span><br \/>\n<span>the reader&#8217;s white bow loose, <\/span><br \/>\n<span>her red dress looser.<\/span><br \/>\n<span>the way her face angles <\/span><br \/>\n<span>to the open page. Oh, peace.<\/span><\/p>\n<p class=\"body\" dir=\"auto\"><span><em>My Daughter Reads Books<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n<p class=\"body\" dir=\"auto\"><span>on the ugly white couch with the half-slipped cushions <\/span><br \/>\n<span>when she is supposed to be setting the table<\/span><br \/>\n<span>as she walks from kitchen to dining room,<\/span><br \/>\n<span>blue plastic plate in one hand, paperback in the other.<\/span><\/p>\n<p class=\"body\" dir=\"auto\"><span>In Winslow Homer&#8217;s time, <\/span><br \/>\n<span>just a hundred or so years before my daughter,<\/span><br \/>\n<span>the good reverends let us know<\/span><br \/>\n<span>novels burn the heart, dwarf <\/span><br \/>\n<span>the mind, pervert life&#8217;s duties until <\/span><br \/>\n<span>we slither in the hoofprints of Satan.<\/span><br \/>\n<span>My daughter slithers through books,<\/span><br \/>\n<span>a very hungry caterpillar.<\/span><\/p>\n<p class=\"body\" dir=\"auto\"><span>My daughter reads books<\/span><br \/>\n<span>surrounded by corn muffin crumbs, <\/span><br \/>\n<span>dripped syrup when she is supposed to be <\/span><br \/>\n<span>clearing the table. She reads in the rocking chair <\/span><br \/>\n<span>when she is supposed to be clearing the table.<\/span><\/p>\n<p class=\"body\" dir=\"auto\"><span>In 1860 women read the Good Book, <\/span><br \/>\n<span>a couple psalms, raised, <\/span><br \/>\n<span>as we were, to useless <\/span><br \/>\n<span>lives as Victorian gentlewoman.<\/span><br \/>\n<span>Florence Nightingale<\/span><br \/>\n<span>screamed in drawing rooms, burst<\/span><br \/>\n<span>into flames.<\/span><\/p>\n<p class=\"body\" dir=\"auto\"><span>My daughter reads books<\/span><br \/>\n<span>in the bathroom when she is supposed to be,<\/span><br \/>\n<span><em>I said now,<\/em> clearing the table.<\/span><\/p>\n<p class=\"body\" dir=\"auto\"><span>It wasn&#8217;t all judge a girl&#8217;s character<\/span><br \/>\n<span>by the books she reads. We got books<\/span><br \/>\n<span>as prizes, books as bonds, books <\/span><br \/>\n<span>our women teachers gave us<\/span><br \/>\n<span>from their own small stocked <\/span><br \/>\n<span>polished shelves. They gave us<\/span><br \/>\n<span>solace and laughter, they gave us ourselves.<\/span><\/p>\n<p class=\"body\" dir=\"auto\"><span>My daughter reads books<\/span><br \/>\n<span>waiting at the passport office,<\/span><br \/>\n<span>in the car on the way to synagogue when she is mad at me,<\/span><br \/>\n<span>in the car on the way home from synagogue no longer mad. <\/span><\/p>\n<p class=\"body\" dir=\"auto\"><span>But then there&#8217;s 1886 homeschooling pioneer <\/span><br \/>\n<span>Charlotte Mason who made sure women heard <\/span><br \/>\n<span>a woman reading a novel <\/span><br \/>\n<span>takes a knife to her innards, <\/span><br \/>\n<span>a woman&#8217;s brain&#8217;s not<\/span><br \/>\n<span>constituted like a man&#8217;s, reading sabotages <\/span><br \/>\n<span>her vital metabolic economy.<\/span><\/p>\n<p class=\"body\" dir=\"auto\"><span>My daughter reads books<\/span><br \/>\n<span>in bed,<\/span><br \/>\n<span>in bed past bedtime,<\/span><br \/>\n<span>while picking the icing off her donuts at breakfast,<\/span><br \/>\n<span>while picking her nails.<\/span><\/p>\n<p class=\"body\" dir=\"auto\"><span><em>The girl who sits for hours, poring over a novel <\/em><\/span><em><br \/>\n<\/em><span><em>to the damage of her eyes, her brain, and her <\/em><\/span><em><br \/>\n<\/em><span><em>general nervous system, is guilty<\/em><\/span><em><br \/>\n<\/em><span><em>of a lesser fault of the nature of suicide.<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n<p class=\"body\" dir=\"auto\"><span>My daughter reads books<\/span><br \/>\n<span>while I try to cut her nails,<\/span><br \/>\n<span>when the phone rings with a friend.<\/span><br \/>\n<span>when the doorbell rings.<\/span><\/p>\n<p class=\"body\" dir=\"auto\"><span>She will stun her heart, break her ovaries, <\/span><br \/>\n<span>bring on menstruation, masturbation, insanity.<\/span><br \/>\n<span>Pernicious, she draws away <\/span><br \/>\n<span>the blood for babies.<\/span><br \/>\n<span>I had babies. I read to them<\/span><br \/>\n<span>day and night.<\/span><\/p>\n<p class=\"body\" dir=\"auto\"><span>My daughter reads books<\/span><br \/>\n<span>on the couch when she is supposed to be <\/span><br \/>\n<span>clearing the books off the couch,<\/span><br \/>\n<span>in the bathtub with me reading my book.<\/span><\/p>\n<p class=\"body\" dir=\"auto\"><span><em>They Are Always Calling Our Girls Sluts<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n<p class=\"body\" dir=\"auto\"><span>She has secret passions <em>While her intense<\/em><\/span><br \/>\n<span>She doesn&#8217;t need him<\/span><br \/>\n<span><em>engagement in the book excludes <\/em><\/span><em><br \/>\n<\/em><span><em>the reader from her gaze,<\/em><\/span><br \/>\n<span>Homer needs her <em>vulnerable,<\/em><\/span><em><br \/>\n<\/em><span><em>titillating. Lying on the same plane<\/em><\/span><em><br \/>\n<\/em><span><em>as those who<\/em> are drawn in,<\/span><br \/>\n<span>succubus. <em>The buttons of her dress<\/em><\/span><br \/>\n<span><em>invite undressing, judgment. <\/em><\/span><br \/>\n<span><em>Bold red locks<\/em> fallen <\/span><br \/>\n<span>from the grace of God. Red lips, <\/span><br \/>\n<span>red dress <em>Personal pleasure<\/em><\/span><em><br \/>\n<\/em><span><em>supersedes social duty.<\/em><\/span><br \/>\n<span>Fiction <em>stirs<\/em> a provocative <\/span><br \/>\n<span>promiscuous siren. <\/span><\/p>\n<p class=\"body\" dir=\"auto\"><span>The New Novel <em>Today<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n<p class=\"body\" dir=\"auto\"><span>This time I see that she is all flames;<\/span><br \/>\n<span>the fire laces her as she lies <\/span><br \/>\n<span>in front of the abyss. That she is not afraid<\/span><br \/>\n<span>while she sinks in, does not believe<\/span><br \/>\n<span>wolves will sleek out of the forest.<\/span><\/p>\n<p class=\"body\" dir=\"auto\"><span>I am afraid of the train stuck <\/span><br \/>\n<span>in the mud, sliding off track, <\/span><br \/>\n<span>traveling back while the 19th century <\/span><br \/>\n<span>reverends wipe their brows with white cloths,<\/span><br \/>\n<span>books struck from my daughter&#8217;s hands,<\/span><br \/>\n<span>of everyone I love <\/span><br \/>\n<span>losing their minds. <\/span><\/p>\n<p class=\"body\" dir=\"auto\"><span><em>She looks cozy<\/em> my daughter says<\/span><br \/>\n<span>As we stand in front of <em>The New Novel,<\/em><\/span><em><br \/>\n<\/em><span><em>I wonder if she&#8217;s reading<\/em> All-of-a-Kind Family,<\/span><br \/>\n<span><em>the part where the sisters hunt buttons.<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n<p class=\"body\" dir=\"auto\"><span>This woman has no part in her hair, her ear lit <\/span><br \/>\n<span>by sunlight, buttons meander <\/span><br \/>\n<span>down her front like stepping stones across <\/span><br \/>\n<span>a river, her dress shifts and folds <\/span><br \/>\n<span>the breeze, the forest seems lighter today. <\/span><\/p>\n<p class=\"body\" dir=\"auto\"><span>I want someone to greet me. I think <\/span><br \/>\n<span>there is an old love letter I should reread.<\/span><\/p>\n<p class=\"body\" dir=\"auto\"><span>This time I see how young she is.<\/span><br \/>\n<span>Fire flows over her hips, the woods <\/span><br \/>\n<span>pant with desire, the painter too close. <\/span><br \/>\n<span>I am more aware <\/span><br \/>\n<span>of her power now, how she is bigger <\/span><br \/>\n<span>than anything else in the world.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div><\/div><\/div>\t\t<\/div>\r\n\t\t\t<\/article>\r\n\t<article class=\"w-grid-item size_1x1 post-2646 poem type-poem status-publish hentry\" data-id=\"2646\">\r\n\t\t<div class=\"w-grid-item-h\">\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"w-vwrapper usg_vwrapper_3\" style=\"--vwrapper-gap:0rem\"><div class=\"w-vwrapper usg_vwrapper_1 poem-content poem-english\"><h2 class=\"w-post-elm post_title usg_post_title_1 entry-title color_link_inherit\">The Heroin Addict on 77th and Aurora with the Cardboard Sign<\/h2><div class=\"w-post-elm post_custom_field usg_post_custom_field_3 type_text subtitle color_link_inherit\"><span class=\"w-post-elm-value\"><\/span><\/div><div class=\"w-post-elm post_content usg_post_content_1\"><p><img loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\" wp-image-2647 aligncenter\" src=\"https:\/\/yayserver.com\/debbiebacharach\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/07\/TheHeroinAddicton77thandAurorawiththeCardboardSignShayneSchultz-300x200.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"486\" height=\"324\" srcset=\"https:\/\/yayserver.com\/debbiebacharach\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/07\/TheHeroinAddicton77thandAurorawiththeCardboardSignShayneSchultz-300x200.jpg 300w, https:\/\/yayserver.com\/debbiebacharach\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/07\/TheHeroinAddicton77thandAurorawiththeCardboardSignShayneSchultz-1024x683.jpg 1024w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 486px) 100vw, 486px\" \/><\/p>\n<p class=\"\">The Heroin Addict on 77th and Aurora with the Cardboard Sign<\/p>\n<p class=\"\">She asks for peace.<br \/>\nPeace, $, junk. She lays out<br \/>\nher whole kit,<br \/>\na small mirror, lipstick.<\/p>\n<p class=\"\">She knows to worry<br \/>\nabout that house. They hang<br \/>\ntheir clothes in the front yard,<br \/>\nleave them in the rain. They smile<br \/>\nat kids near their drenched<br \/>\nlong underwear, blackberry thorns.<br \/>\nThey have four carved pumpkins on their front porch,<br \/>\na dead mouse on the stairs.<\/p>\n<p class=\"\">She misses the way bodies can fit together, the heat<br \/>\nas a lover spoons her. She misses<br \/>\nthe smell of her daughter&#8217;s scalp as the girl nestles<br \/>\nher head to her breasts.<\/p>\n<p class=\"\">She has a second bra, a washcloth, herbal soap<br \/>\nthat takes her to a day at Talapus Lake,<br \/>\nwhere evergreens would never stoop<br \/>\nto be fenceposts, broken at that.<br \/>\nBut she\u2019s not there. She\u2019s here.<\/p>\n<p class=\"\">In hell they pass out plastic cups<br \/>\nof creamsicle with no spoon just a half-sized<br \/>\nwooden tongue depressor and you stand<br \/>\nin a deserted school hallway to eat while you wait<br \/>\nfor the pick-up that will never come and even<br \/>\nin your agony,<br \/>\nthe terror and betrayal, part of you thinks,<br \/>\nthis tastes good.<\/p>\n<\/div><\/div><div class=\"w-vwrapper usg_vwrapper_2 poem-content poem-spanish\"><h2 class=\"w-post-elm post_title usg_post_title_2 entry-title color_link_inherit\">The Heroin Addict on 77th and Aurora with the Cardboard Sign<\/h2><div class=\"w-post-elm post_custom_field usg_post_custom_field_5 type_text subtitle color_link_inherit\"><span class=\"w-post-elm-value\"><\/span><\/div><div class=\"w-post-elm post_content usg_post_content_2\"><p><img loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\" wp-image-2647 aligncenter\" src=\"https:\/\/yayserver.com\/debbiebacharach\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/07\/TheHeroinAddicton77thandAurorawiththeCardboardSignShayneSchultz-300x200.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"486\" height=\"324\" srcset=\"https:\/\/yayserver.com\/debbiebacharach\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/07\/TheHeroinAddicton77thandAurorawiththeCardboardSignShayneSchultz-300x200.jpg 300w, https:\/\/yayserver.com\/debbiebacharach\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/07\/TheHeroinAddicton77thandAurorawiththeCardboardSignShayneSchultz-1024x683.jpg 1024w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 486px) 100vw, 486px\" \/><\/p>\n<p class=\"\">The Heroin Addict on 77th and Aurora with the Cardboard Sign<\/p>\n<p class=\"\">She asks for peace.<br \/>\nPeace, $, junk. She lays out<br \/>\nher whole kit,<br \/>\na small mirror, lipstick.<\/p>\n<p class=\"\">She knows to worry<br \/>\nabout that house. They hang<br \/>\ntheir clothes in the front yard,<br \/>\nleave them in the rain. They smile<br \/>\nat kids near their drenched<br \/>\nlong underwear, blackberry thorns.<br \/>\nThey have four carved pumpkins on their front porch,<br \/>\na dead mouse on the stairs.<\/p>\n<p class=\"\">She misses the way bodies can fit together, the heat<br \/>\nas a lover spoons her. She misses<br \/>\nthe smell of her daughter&#8217;s scalp as the girl nestles<br \/>\nher head to her breasts.<\/p>\n<p class=\"\">She has a second bra, a washcloth, herbal soap<br \/>\nthat takes her to a day at Talapus Lake,<br \/>\nwhere evergreens would never stoop<br \/>\nto be fenceposts, broken at that.<br \/>\nBut she\u2019s not there. She\u2019s here.<\/p>\n<p class=\"\">In hell they pass out plastic cups<br \/>\nof creamsicle with no spoon just a half-sized<br \/>\nwooden tongue depressor and you stand<br \/>\nin a deserted school hallway to eat while you wait<br \/>\nfor the pick-up that will never come and even<br \/>\nin your agony,<br \/>\nthe terror and betrayal, part of you thinks,<br \/>\nthis tastes good.<\/p>\n<\/div><\/div><\/div>\t\t<\/div>\r\n\t\t\t<\/article>\r\n\t<article class=\"w-grid-item size_1x1 post-2645 poem type-poem status-publish hentry\" data-id=\"2645\">\r\n\t\t<div class=\"w-grid-item-h\">\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"w-vwrapper usg_vwrapper_3\" style=\"--vwrapper-gap:0rem\"><div class=\"w-vwrapper usg_vwrapper_1 poem-content poem-english\"><h2 class=\"w-post-elm post_title usg_post_title_1 entry-title color_link_inherit\">For My Friend, Grieving<\/h2><div class=\"w-post-elm post_custom_field usg_post_custom_field_3 type_text subtitle color_link_inherit\"><span class=\"w-post-elm-value\"><\/span><\/div><div class=\"w-post-elm post_content usg_post_content_1\"><p>1. For me grief<\/p>\n<p>has been a pudding pop. The first bite<br \/>\nmade me think there might be something<br \/>\nthere,<\/p>\n<p>but by the second, the third,<\/p>\n<p>just empty<\/p>\n<p>calories. After awhile, I didn\u2019t even notice<br \/>\nI was no longer at the table.<\/p>\n<p>You, my darling, you\u2019ve got the Sachertorte of grief,<br \/>\nevery bite an explosion to the senses,<br \/>\nevery bite calling<br \/>\nfor more.<\/p>\n<p>You must sit at this table<br \/>\nwith the limp balloons, the brief flashes of fire<br \/>\nand eat and eat alone.<\/p>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<p>2. I know nothing about grieving, but I read a romance novel<\/p>\n<p>set in the cowboy west and the grieving widow<br \/>\nhad to wear a year of black.<br \/>\nI can see the point of that.<\/p>\n<p>But, I must admit, the widow in this book<br \/>\nwasn\u2019t actually grieving her abusive husband<br \/>\n(who keeled over at the whorehouse<br \/>\nin flagrante delicto.) She was grieving<br \/>\nhow bad her life had been and then a former student<br \/>\n(I know, I know, kinky) came to town<br \/>\nriding a bad reputation, and you can guess<br \/>\nwhere they wound up. I can loan you the book.<\/p>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<p>3. What would Donald Hall do?<\/p>\n<p>Screw.<\/p>\n<p>After Jane Kenyon kicked it, he went for<br \/>\nmeaningless sex.<br \/>\nHow do I know? He told us so<br \/>\nat the public reading on Second. Perhaps,<br \/>\neven then, he was trawling for prospects.<br \/>\nEveryone wants to comfort.<br \/>\nYou could take out an ad:<\/p>\n<p>Needs to be fucked senseless.<br \/>\nHas own room.<br \/>\nIgnore screaming.<\/p>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<p>4. I\u2019m thinking you should eat your baby.<\/p>\n<p>He is what\u2019s left of her.<br \/>\nMaybe ingesting a finger at a time<br \/>\nwould calm that craving.<br \/>\nOf course, the problem\u2013<br \/>\nafter a month of parceling out thighs and rump,<br \/>\nof slowly chewing down cartilage,<br \/>\nhe\u2019d be gone. Kids on the plastic yellow slide,<br \/>\nkids at the Stop-n-Shop, kids almost asleep<br \/>\nin their strollers while their mothers hum<br \/>\nlullabies your lover did not two a.m. hum,<br \/>\nwould not suffice.<\/p>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<p>5. I know you don\u2019t drink, but<\/p>\n<p>Grief might like a pint.<br \/>\nSelf-cutting? Leeches?<br \/>\nI\u2019m just brainstorming now.<br \/>\nI think I saw a barbershop,<\/p>\n<p>up a couple streets<\/p>\n<p>and to the left.<\/p>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<p>6. May I offer a swift kick to the head?<\/p>\n<p>The DMS-IV has classified deep grief<br \/>\nsix months after the instigating incident<br \/>\nas pathological.<\/p>\n<p>(See Adjustment Disorders 309-309.9).<\/p>\n<p>So, you\u2019ve got to stop wallowing,<br \/>\nor they\u2019ll drug you<br \/>\nand pull your kid.<\/p>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<p style=\"text-align: center;\">7. Let\u2019s play pick a clich\u00e9<br \/>\nStep right up! Step right up! Spin the wheel! Take your chances!<\/p>\n<p style=\"text-align: center;\">Everything happens for the best.<br \/>\nAn apple a day. \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 Time heals all wounds.<br \/>\nOne day at a time. \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 Tomorrow is another day.<br \/>\nJust like riding a bicycle. \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 A stitch in time saves nine.<br \/>\nYou can\u2019t always \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 get what you want.<br \/>\nKeep on keeping on. \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 Give it the old college try.<br \/>\nLet\u2019s get the show \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 on the road.<br \/>\nAbsence makes \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 the heart grow fonder.<br \/>\nBetter to have loved and lost.<\/p>\n<p style=\"text-align: center;\">The carny has pegged you for a rube.<\/p>\n<p>8. I remember your love\u2019s bright blue frames<\/p>\n<p>Do you remember the witch who offered<br \/>\nto pluck a day from your overburdened brain?<br \/>\nSure no one wants to give up<br \/>\nthe hike with fifteen switchbacks,<br \/>\nkissing at every corner. But what about<br \/>\nstuck in the airport when the kid<br \/>\nthrows himself on the floor and howls<br \/>\nand your love turns her shoulder<br \/>\nbut not before you see the scowl.<br \/>\nChemo day. Chemo day after day.<br \/>\nThe witch offered to wipe away a day,<br \/>\nto take every color, every sound,<br \/>\nto take the pain.<\/p>\n<p>You refrained.<\/p>\n<\/div><\/div><div class=\"w-vwrapper usg_vwrapper_2 poem-content poem-spanish\"><h2 class=\"w-post-elm post_title usg_post_title_2 entry-title color_link_inherit\">For My Friend, Grieving<\/h2><div class=\"w-post-elm post_custom_field usg_post_custom_field_5 type_text subtitle color_link_inherit\"><span class=\"w-post-elm-value\"><\/span><\/div><div class=\"w-post-elm post_content usg_post_content_2\"><p>1. For me grief<\/p>\n<p>has been a pudding pop. The first bite<br \/>\nmade me think there might be something<br \/>\nthere,<\/p>\n<p>but by the second, the third,<\/p>\n<p>just empty<\/p>\n<p>calories. After awhile, I didn\u2019t even notice<br \/>\nI was no longer at the table.<\/p>\n<p>You, my darling, you\u2019ve got the Sachertorte of grief,<br \/>\nevery bite an explosion to the senses,<br \/>\nevery bite calling<br \/>\nfor more.<\/p>\n<p>You must sit at this table<br \/>\nwith the limp balloons, the brief flashes of fire<br \/>\nand eat and eat alone.<\/p>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<p>2. I know nothing about grieving, but I read a romance novel<\/p>\n<p>set in the cowboy west and the grieving widow<br \/>\nhad to wear a year of black.<br \/>\nI can see the point of that.<\/p>\n<p>But, I must admit, the widow in this book<br \/>\nwasn\u2019t actually grieving her abusive husband<br \/>\n(who keeled over at the whorehouse<br \/>\nin flagrante delicto.) She was grieving<br \/>\nhow bad her life had been and then a former student<br \/>\n(I know, I know, kinky) came to town<br \/>\nriding a bad reputation, and you can guess<br \/>\nwhere they wound up. I can loan you the book.<\/p>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<p>3. What would Donald Hall do?<\/p>\n<p>Screw.<\/p>\n<p>After Jane Kenyon kicked it, he went for<br \/>\nmeaningless sex.<br \/>\nHow do I know? He told us so<br \/>\nat the public reading on Second. Perhaps,<br \/>\neven then, he was trawling for prospects.<br \/>\nEveryone wants to comfort.<br \/>\nYou could take out an ad:<\/p>\n<p>Needs to be fucked senseless.<br \/>\nHas own room.<br \/>\nIgnore screaming.<\/p>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<p>4. I\u2019m thinking you should eat your baby.<\/p>\n<p>He is what\u2019s left of her.<br \/>\nMaybe ingesting a finger at a time<br \/>\nwould calm that craving.<br \/>\nOf course, the problem\u2013<br \/>\nafter a month of parceling out thighs and rump,<br \/>\nof slowly chewing down cartilage,<br \/>\nhe\u2019d be gone. Kids on the plastic yellow slide,<br \/>\nkids at the Stop-n-Shop, kids almost asleep<br \/>\nin their strollers while their mothers hum<br \/>\nlullabies your lover did not two a.m. hum,<br \/>\nwould not suffice.<\/p>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<p>5. I know you don\u2019t drink, but<\/p>\n<p>Grief might like a pint.<br \/>\nSelf-cutting? Leeches?<br \/>\nI\u2019m just brainstorming now.<br \/>\nI think I saw a barbershop,<\/p>\n<p>up a couple streets<\/p>\n<p>and to the left.<\/p>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<p>6. May I offer a swift kick to the head?<\/p>\n<p>The DMS-IV has classified deep grief<br \/>\nsix months after the instigating incident<br \/>\nas pathological.<\/p>\n<p>(See Adjustment Disorders 309-309.9).<\/p>\n<p>So, you\u2019ve got to stop wallowing,<br \/>\nor they\u2019ll drug you<br \/>\nand pull your kid.<\/p>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<p style=\"text-align: center;\">7. Let\u2019s play pick a clich\u00e9<br \/>\nStep right up! Step right up! Spin the wheel! Take your chances!<\/p>\n<p style=\"text-align: center;\">Everything happens for the best.<br \/>\nAn apple a day. \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 Time heals all wounds.<br \/>\nOne day at a time. \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 Tomorrow is another day.<br \/>\nJust like riding a bicycle. \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 A stitch in time saves nine.<br \/>\nYou can\u2019t always \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 get what you want.<br \/>\nKeep on keeping on. \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 Give it the old college try.<br \/>\nLet\u2019s get the show \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 on the road.<br \/>\nAbsence makes \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 the heart grow fonder.<br \/>\nBetter to have loved and lost.<\/p>\n<p style=\"text-align: center;\">The carny has pegged you for a rube.<\/p>\n<p>8. I remember your love\u2019s bright blue frames<\/p>\n<p>Do you remember the witch who offered<br \/>\nto pluck a day from your overburdened brain?<br \/>\nSure no one wants to give up<br \/>\nthe hike with fifteen switchbacks,<br \/>\nkissing at every corner. But what about<br \/>\nstuck in the airport when the kid<br \/>\nthrows himself on the floor and howls<br \/>\nand your love turns her shoulder<br \/>\nbut not before you see the scowl.<br \/>\nChemo day. Chemo day after day.<br \/>\nThe witch offered to wipe away a day,<br \/>\nto take every color, every sound,<br \/>\nto take the pain.<\/p>\n<p>You refrained.<\/p>\n<\/div><\/div><\/div>\t\t<\/div>\r\n\t\t\t<\/article>\r\n\t<article class=\"w-grid-item size_1x1 post-2641 poem type-poem status-publish hentry\" data-id=\"2641\">\r\n\t\t<div class=\"w-grid-item-h\">\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"w-vwrapper usg_vwrapper_3\" style=\"--vwrapper-gap:0rem\"><div class=\"w-vwrapper usg_vwrapper_1 poem-content poem-english\"><h2 class=\"w-post-elm post_title usg_post_title_1 entry-title color_link_inherit\">Enduring Power<\/h2><div class=\"w-post-elm post_custom_field usg_post_custom_field_3 type_text subtitle color_link_inherit\"><span class=\"w-post-elm-value\"><\/span><\/div><div class=\"w-post-elm post_content usg_post_content_1\"><p class=\"\">My mother has signed<br \/>\nthe forms. I have bent over<br \/>\nand signed as well.<br \/>\nI have sworn<\/p>\n<p class=\"\">to guard the curtain<br \/>\nbetween her and the hereafter,<br \/>\nto pin the curtain aside.<\/p>\n<p class=\"\">When I was a child, I would hide<br \/>\nunder department store carousels,<br \/>\npress my cheek against<br \/>\nthe hems of grown-up dresses<br \/>\nthe soft cotton anchor stitch.<\/p>\n<p class=\"\">I felt so safe in the shadows<br \/>\nout of time<br \/>\nwhile I could always<br \/>\npull the curtain aside and find<br \/>\nthe dressing rooms, the mirrors,<br \/>\nmother after mother after<br \/>\nbeautiful swirling mother.<\/p>\n<\/div><\/div><div class=\"w-vwrapper usg_vwrapper_2 poem-content poem-spanish\"><h2 class=\"w-post-elm post_title usg_post_title_2 entry-title color_link_inherit\">Enduring Power<\/h2><div class=\"w-post-elm post_custom_field usg_post_custom_field_5 type_text subtitle color_link_inherit\"><span class=\"w-post-elm-value\"><\/span><\/div><div class=\"w-post-elm post_content usg_post_content_2\"><p class=\"\">My mother has signed<br \/>\nthe forms. I have bent over<br \/>\nand signed as well.<br \/>\nI have sworn<\/p>\n<p class=\"\">to guard the curtain<br \/>\nbetween her and the hereafter,<br \/>\nto pin the curtain aside.<\/p>\n<p class=\"\">When I was a child, I would hide<br \/>\nunder department store carousels,<br \/>\npress my cheek against<br \/>\nthe hems of grown-up dresses<br \/>\nthe soft cotton anchor stitch.<\/p>\n<p class=\"\">I felt so safe in the shadows<br \/>\nout of time<br \/>\nwhile I could always<br \/>\npull the curtain aside and find<br \/>\nthe dressing rooms, the mirrors,<br \/>\nmother after mother after<br \/>\nbeautiful swirling mother.<\/p>\n<\/div><\/div><\/div>\t\t<\/div>\r\n\t\t\t<\/article>\r\n<\/div><div class=\"w-grid-preloader\">\t<div class=\"g-preloader type_1\">\r\n\t\t<div><\/div>\r\n\t<\/div>\r\n\t<\/div>\t<div class=\"w-grid-json hidden\" onclick='return {&quot;action&quot;:&quot;us_ajax_grid&quot;,&quot;infinite_scroll&quot;:0,&quot;max_num_pages&quot;:1,&quot;pagination&quot;:&quot;none&quot;,&quot;template_vars&quot;:{&quot;columns&quot;:&quot;1&quot;,&quot;exclude_items&quot;:&quot;none&quot;,&quot;img_size&quot;:&quot;default&quot;,&quot;ignore_items_size&quot;:0,&quot;items_layout&quot;:&quot;2661&quot;,&quot;items_offset&quot;:&quot;1&quot;,&quot;load_animation&quot;:&quot;none&quot;,&quot;overriding_link&quot;:&quot;%7B%22url%22%3A%22%22%7D&quot;,&quot;post_id&quot;:0,&quot;query_args&quot;:{&quot;post_type&quot;:[&quot;poem&quot;],&quot;post_status&quot;:[&quot;publish&quot;,&quot;acf-disabled&quot;],&quot;posts_per_page&quot;:999},&quot;orderby_query_args&quot;:{&quot;orderby&quot;:{&quot;title&quot;:&quot;DESC&quot;},&quot;order&quot;:&quot;DESC&quot;},&quot;type&quot;:&quot;grid&quot;,&quot;us_grid_post_type&quot;:&quot;poem&quot;,&quot;us_grid_ajax_index&quot;:3,&quot;us_grid_filter_query_string&quot;:null,&quot;us_grid_index&quot;:3,&quot;page_args&quot;:[]}}'><\/div>\r\n\t<\/div><div class=\"w-separator size_large\"><\/div><\/div><\/div><\/div><\/div><\/section>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"My mother has signed the forms. I have bent over and signed as well. I have sworn to guard the curtain between her and the hereafter, to pin the curtain aside. When I was a child, I would hide under department store carousels, press my cheek against the hems of grown-up dresses the soft cotton...","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"parent":95,"menu_order":4,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-21","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"acf":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/yayserver.com\/debbiebacharach\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/21","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/yayserver.com\/debbiebacharach\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/yayserver.com\/debbiebacharach\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/yayserver.com\/debbiebacharach\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/yayserver.com\/debbiebacharach\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=21"}],"version-history":[{"count":34,"href":"https:\/\/yayserver.com\/debbiebacharach\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/21\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":2984,"href":"https:\/\/yayserver.com\/debbiebacharach\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/21\/revisions\/2984"}],"up":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/yayserver.com\/debbiebacharach\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/95"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/yayserver.com\/debbiebacharach\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=21"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}