throwing the unfixed highchair down the apartment stairs
was more than a warning to her husband
out late again with union buddies
jack crying from the anger his mother displayed
on another night of cabbage stew and corn bread
and the well-package cigars stoking the furnace fire
some women complain about a round of golf
and she dealt out a square of dice hidden
in the left vest pocket of his smoking jacket
unafraid she called a locksmith
wrote out a check that would bounce
marched to the lawyers early next day
with jack licking his last sucker
First and foremost, I’m a woman. I was a wife, and will be again in time (hoping by the end of this year—marrying my best friend). I have three living children out of five—Dunstan was lost three months before birth, Vincent recently passed after 2 ½ years battling the rare cancer PNET. He was 24. I have a BGS and an MA. The credentials did not make me a writer. I’ve been writing since I could take pen or pencil to a paper, even if the lines weren’t letters at the time. Gran’ma Ginny (an oral storyteller, keeping up with her Indian heritage) and I shared stories all the time. She was my inspiration. Today, I try to put her stories onto the paper. It is a difficult task.
I’ve had work appear online in Diagram and EWR, and in printed form in Confluence. A piece of my work has been performed by the Dance Collective of Fort Wayne, Indiana. I have done several readings on the campus of Indiana University Purdue University Fort Wayne and at the Three Rivers Coop of Fort Wayne in a series called First Fridays.