New Year’s Eve —

where the dog was

an empty collar

steady pull —

my longing for home begins

as we drive away

one warm spot

in this cold December night —

clothes from the dryer

holiday travel —

taking the long way

to see more lights

sharpening

as the night grows colder —

the edge of the moon

twenty-two years —

the voice I hear

in a crowd is yours

last-minute swerving —

holiday conversations

and icy roads

all those bicycles

coming together at last —

Christmas eve

blinking lights

out of synch —

hospital Christmas

before the presents —

behind-the-scenes planning

and knowing smiles

by morning

will I have forgotten

this long night’s dream?

winter recital —

we listen for the song

beneath the notes

introductions —

this year’s fledglings

learn about ice

that day our dad

made a game out of

company manners

stacking the logs

loudly

to give the mice time

this list of names —

alive in our memory

one at a time

mid-December

before the moon comes up —

darker than dark

Not In Our Town

My membership in Not In Our Town is a reflection of my life-long development as a Quaker and an activist. I came of age during the emergence of the AIDS epidemic. Just as I was coming out as lesbian, my country’s prejudice and inhumanity was exposed in the starkest possible terms, with President Reagan refusing to address the growing crisis, and Pat Buchanan giving his infamous “Culture Wars” address to the Republican National Convention. Desperate and dying, AIDS activists brought a fierce creativity to their protests. I can still hear ACT UP”s chants from those days: “Act Up, Fight Back, Fight Aids!”

My life partner and I were finally able to marry and secure our full federal rights (after nearly 20 years together!) in 2011. In the course of my lifetime alone, so much has changed for the better in the LGBTQ community in America. But the lived experiences of people of color, and particularly that of black Americans, remain plagued by the effects of entrenched racism.

On September 3rd, 2001, our son was born. Eight days later, the attacks on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon brought America to a stunned and grieving halt. I looked down at the infant in my arms and thought, “What kind of world have we brought you into?” Since becoming a parent, my activism has been informed by the knowledge that our son is surely watching, and that my world is now his as well.

As a Quaker, I believe that there is that of God in everyone. I also believe that it is my responsibility to work for the change I long to see in the world. A fellow Quaker, Liz Oppenheimer, traveled to Ferguson, Missouri this past October and, in keeping with Quaker tradition, returned with some queries that she encouraged others to consider. Among these was the query, “Does your checkbook or calendar provide evidence of your active commitment to racial justice?”

This query was in my heart as I followed the stories of continuing protests and listened to the perspectives of the (often young) leaders at the heart of the renewed struggle for racial and judicial justice. I was reminded of one of my favorite Jane Addams quotes, an excerpt from an essay in which she says, “'The good we secure for ourselves is precarious and uncertain until it is secured for all of us and incorporated into our common life.”

So when a friend reached out to me about the possibility of joining Not In Our Town, it seemed like the perfect opportunity to “walk the walk.” I am grateful for the opportunity to join with others who have made a personal commitment to creating inclusive and safe communities for all. I am tired of wondering, when I hear of a young person’s death at their own hand, if they might have been struggling with their sexual identity. I'm sickened by the ever-expanding list of unarmed black citizens who have been tragically turned into hashtag echoes of themselves. I am aching to have the luxury of speaking of prejudice and injustice in the past tense. Darnell Moore, who helped organize the Black Lives Matter ride to Ferguson after Michael Brown’s death, said, “you need embraces, to be angry, to breathe, to be creative, and to think about solutions with folks who care about you.” 

With luck, Not In Our Town can be a space for all of that.

remembering now
why that song meant so much
in the first place

in such a hurry

the front door sparrows are gone

before I see them

December mistake —

thinking we have enough wood

to last the winter

all winter

missing the lap

of summer waves

lying between us

he asks if we are the banks

and he, the river

mid-December —

mothers talking about layers

as a cold rain falls

we find ourselves
redesigning again —
peace labyrinth

too lazy to look,

I take your full moon report

on faith

apologizing

to the sparrows I just startled

thinking of Issa

winter trees —

somehow even more lovely 

without their leaves

old folk songs

rolling unbidden to mind,

awaiting new lyrics

level

with the leaf-tangled grass,

pinned down by sorrow

grateful for breath
for breathing, grateful
for language, for life

lavender fields —
bare spots and bees
after the hurricane

the wonder I felt
holding a library card
with my name on it

my upstairs pillow
and my downstairs pie —
worthy opponents

I keep looking for
friends who have gone on ahead —
winter’s chill

our first kitchen —

how we loved bumping

into each other!

along the edges

those we didn’t mean to kill —

Route 27

disobedience —

he looks over at me

as he licks the knife

hitching rides

on the last warm day —

ladybugs

November heat wave —

all up and down the street,

birds shocked into song

tracing the news -

the lake is safe for skating!

as doors fly open

hard-to-reach places —

she thinks of her mother

polishing silver

late November —

our house heat not quite reaching

the tip of my nose

bedtime resistance —

his last-minute questions

a foot in the door

for just a moment —

lost in the kingdom

of frost

last night’s rain

slowly working its way down —

how I still miss you!

holiday season —

I review my notes from

last year’s Thanksgiving

sleet changing to rain —

the in-laws take careful turns

holding the baby

crossing this river

for the first time —

she takes my hand

the sun in my mind

still bouncing off the lake

long hours later

new weather report —

faces tilted up to feel

the snow coming down

ready for bed —

she puts the really loud watch

in a drawer

hole in the page

where you tried to erase —

battle memories

(For all those we have asked to fight on our behalf.)

cursing the driver

who brakes to a sudden stop —

until I see deer

cloud darkened days  —

trading stories of divorce 

we shiver a bit

how did you know?

we smile, happy to answer

one more time

the one red tree

in a hillside blazing gold —

goodnight, Catherine



(for Catherine Perry, member, Princeton Friends Meeting)

drawer full of keys,

no idea which lock they’re for —

how we hold on!

speed bump —

she takes his hand

off her knee

all day

the wind ruffling the world —

even the lake

wishing his family

could be in the mourners’ line

to hear those stories

(For D.I. and his family)

pinned by the wind —

the hawk overhead

seems not to move

her just-swept walk

covered in leaves again —

she starts over

Hallowe’en —

we scare a tiny monster

without meaning to

hand-me-downs —

photos of my mother

that I thought were me

how traffic reports

only stop being jargon

as we’re nearing home