Beds I Have Slept In

I suppose before memory, I slept in a dresser drawer. The safest bed while storms raged was my mother’s. Then came the first bed of sex, moonlit and snowy, the bed of marriage, strange beds and a bed too large for one.

I gaze through the lacy windows at the red bird in the new snow and think of my death bed. Is it the final slumber or just a napping spot until my lovers find me again sleeping in a dresser drawer?

Emily Florence



Standing on the causeway, she looked for the downtown bus. The acid sun pricked at her so she focused on the hibiscus, also an angry red. After work, the rain was heavy. He couldn’t pick her up. Too busy, he said.

When he left her arms at night though she couldn’t say why, she cried. She took up smoking and drinking now and then while the war escalated.

Emily Florence



Your hand rests at the small of my back, your fingers brushing my skin like grasses caught in a warm breeze. The breeze becomes an arid gale, sweeping us over the desert, curtained by the moon so only lovers can see.

We traverse the perception of the night and return intact as the new light seeps in, but for the pale blossom of a saguaro and an eagle feather, so subtle, they do not touch.

Emily Florence



The palest of yellow, I place them in a clear ginger jar. With unassuming beauty, they shoot up from the earth like comets, do not protest when I bring them inside and do not whimper when they begin to fade. In the coolness of my room, delicate, sweet and wild, they show me how to be.

Emily Florence


Stephen and Me

We did not care about convention or time. We would spend hours on the cool floor of the coop, chickens long gone, watching the light filter the dust.

And then Stephen stopped coming to school. Although he lived just across Collier Street, I did not know what had happened until he returned in the fall, 

a beanie covering his head and the laughter gone from his eyes. I was never to recapture those carefree days. At ten, I learned the true nature of things, that nothing remains the same. 

Emily Florence



Everything Is Beautiful and I Am So Sad

This is how the heart makes a duet of wonder and grief. The light spraying through the lace of the fern is as delicate as the fibers of memory forming their web around the knot in my throat. The breeze makes the birds move from branch to branch as this ache makes me look for those I’ve lost in the next rooom, in the next song, in the laugh of the next stranger. In the very center under it all, what we have that no one can take away and all that we’ve lost face each other. It is there that I’m adrift, feeling punctured by a holiness that exists inside everything. I am so sad and everything is beautiful. 

Mark Nepo



Single One Way Trip—North Ferry Co.—Amount $4.50

The ticket was in my poetry book. It could have been from a trip to Cape Cod. Or maybe that trip to Shelter Island where I wanted to stay with you forever, isolated by the sea and the storm-beaten pines.

My love was enough but you were ill at ease and I did not interpret what your tension meant. I could not see what would come. 

The ticket was yellowed and creased. Time had faded the words and worn the edges. The North Ferry—now so unfamiliar a name.  

Emily Florence 


Fourteen Black Paintings

Fourteen deep purple and velvety black Mark Rothko paintings hang within an octagonal-shaped chapel in Houston, Texas. The Rothkos were made for an interfaith sanctuary dedicated to spirituality and human rights. In her vision, Dominique de Menil who conceived the chapel said, The Rothko Chapel is oriented toward the sacred yet it imposes no traditional environment. It offers a place where common orientation could be found—an orientation towards God, named or unnamed, an orientation towards the highest aspirations of Man and the most intimate calls of the conscience. Peter Gabriel was so moved after visiting the chapel, he wrote the song Fourteen Black Paintings. It is my wish to visit this sacred spot and meditate with the profundity of the work.


To an Athlete Dying Young

The time you won your town the race we chaired you through the market-place; man and boy stood cheering by, and home we brought you shoulder-high. 

Today, the road all runners come, shoulder-high we bring you home, and set at your threshold down, townsmen of a stiller town. 

Smart lad, to slip betimes away from fields where glory does not stay and early though the laurel grows it withers quicker than a rose. 

Now you will not swell the rout of lads that wore their honors out, runners whom renown outran and the name died before the man. 

So set, before its echoes fade, the fleet foot on the sill of shade, and hold the low lintel up the still-defended challenge-cup. 

And round that early-laureled head will flock to gaze the strengthless dead, and find unwithered on its curls the garland briefer than a girl’s. 

A.E. Housman 


The Masai have reported to the district commissioner that many times at sunrise and sunset, they have seen lions on Finch Hatton’s grave. A lion and a lioness have gone there and stood or lain on the grave for a long time. ...The ground around the grave was leveled out to a sort of terrace. I suppose that the level place makes a good site for the lions. From there they have a view over the plain and the cattle and game. Denys would like that.

Isak Dinesen (Karen Blixen) from Out of Africa

Whispers From England — A Short Story

Pre-dawn and cold, I come before her — Kanzeon, Goddess of Compassion, sculpted with the oils and energy of my hands — light a candle, settle into my posture and sit in meditation, the sane part of my day. As I rise and bow, I feel the balance which eluded me for so long. I pull on layers of clothes, my coffee steaming in a friendly way. My boots sit alone in the mud room. The rain of Saturday has frozen on top of the snow. Even the sea grasses are imprisoned in hard stretches of ice. As the sun rises, I try to chip a narrow path to the truck with an old hoe but give up any hope of reaching town today. The sassafras branches strain and then snap, the pieces scattering like cat’s eyes in a marble game. The old pines in back are stronger and more naturally sloped to bear the weight of storms, reminding me of shoulders used to toil and harshness.

 Kira pads softly after me and rests her head on the edge of the bathtub as I sink into the hot water and watch the submerged part of my body slowly turn pink. I gaze at the silvery stretch marks low on my belly that were to bring only joy. His cry, urgent and strangled, comes through the walls and I see the three of us crouched over his tiny coffin. Sara wore grape lipstick that day, her slender face so pale. She was nearly fifteen then, her eyes constantly searching my face for answers. I tried to be those shoulders for her. I used to wake from dreams of him at my breast, pulling at something deep inside of me where, for that instant before my sleep crumbled around me, I lived in a sand castle. The sea of reality has dissolved all of that. There are no instants left.

The stone fireplace never did draw well. At my feet, Kira intently watches me shell peanuts. One for her, two for me, two for her, one for me. It seems important to share equally with her. My hair dries slowly in the spaces of silence, some broken by the splitting and crackling of the fire, others expanding in the coolness at my back. I light a cigarette — the first of the day. Yesterday, only two. Henry would find it ironic. Did I continue to smoke while we were together only to defy him. Passive-aggression was the only way to be heard. The screaming inside me always covered with a smile or a blank stare.

We looked the perfect couple. I remember a businessman stopping us after a flight to St. Croix to comment on what a beautiful family we were. Pristine beaches which we wouldn’t walk on. Henry didn’t like the feel of sand on his skin. We ate local seafood and drank mai-tais, Sara swam in the pool while we watched her, in a tropical-flowered bikini, her slight body beginning to mature. She was proud and embarrassed at the same time. I was overjoyed and then saddened when I realized I had become pregnant on that trip. A new life — a sibling for Sara — a deeper bond with Henry, more to extricate myself from.

We met on a dating website for the disabled, a lifeline for those who found it physically hard to socialize. He was afflicted with MS, I with ME/CFS. A perfect match. Our initial bond was bone-deep, ever-present fatigue and the isolation that is inherent. We emailed each other from August until December, my days began and ended with his messages. They were skillfully composed and ranged from outrageous humor to the soft suggestions that he was beginning to care for me. He collected fancy bonnet or hood ornaments and one was named Alana by the manufacturer, also my name. She was a bronzed and naked woman reaching lithely into the sky, also called by the manufacturer the Lady of Ecstasy. That became my name, Alana, Lady of Ecstasy. Many emails began with Oh, L of E.

[To be Continued]  


Like Children

My hands and cheeks stung from the March wind and the yellow light beckoned

through the skeleton oaks, yet I could not bring her in and end my child’s game. 

The wild bobbing and swooning of my crimson kite to currents I could not know

made me understand that my creation, once in flight, was no longer mine. 

Emily Florence 



I was fortunate. I was believed. Newly married, living in Miami Beach, I was so very young. I worked at a law firm with two partners. One of the partners asked me if I could stay late one night. He called me into his office, dictated a letter, then as I was leaving, pushed me onto a couch and jumped on top of me. I was so stunned, I froze for a few brief moments. He was a little guy so I was able to get away and leave. The next morning, I told his partner what had happened. He apologized to me and immediately confronted the other partner. He ended the partnership and continued my employment for a few years though it was a financial hardship. Some men are heroes.

A young mother with a toddler and an infant, I was in the basement of my apartment building doing laundry when a man in a ski mask came in carrying what looked like a gun under his jacket. He said he wanted to feel my ass and if I made any noise, he would kill my children. The children sensed the danger and froze. He briefly put his hands on me and then ran. Shaken, I called my husband who immediately came home from work and scoured the neighborhood looking for him. He was not found. I will never forget his eyes. 

At the age of 32, I had extensive oral surgery followed by a week of Percodans for the pain. I had a lingering uneasy feeling about the surgery, the surgeon. I lived on a quiet street with no outlet. When I saw him drive past my house a few weeks later, I realized that something had happened when I was under anesthesia.

At the age of 44, divorced after a 22-year marriage and dating again, I met a man at a club. We went out a few times but I decided this wasn’t something I wanted to continue. I told him this after we had gone out and we were in my house, a mistake I will not make again. He was silent for a few minutes, then he threw me onto the couch and got on top of me. I was frozen, thinking of my daughter sleeping downstairs. He stared at me for a few agonizing minutes and then suddenly got up and left. I ran to the door and locked it behind him but I didn’t hear him leave. After 10-15 minutes I did hear him leave. The next morning I discovered all four of the tires on my car had been slashed.

These things change a woman. A barrier comes up. It remains for the rest of one’s life. It protects. It also isolates. 



Atom Bombs


The red hills of Salina were reflected in her hair. Nearby, under government’s eye, a cold ugliness grew. 

It was covertly released into the air and entered the bodies of all who lived there. 

When forty years had passed, her black hair now white, she was awarded a sum to compensate for her life.

Emily Florence



The Cowboy

Ruddy from Montana winds he straddles his painted pony and braces against the cold.

He cups his hand to light a cigarette, inhales and clenches his chiseled jaw.

I now search the leathered folds of my father’s face for that young cowboy

on a drive to Pocatello, his agate eyes gazing, big sky and life before him.

Emily Florence



Final Words

When I told him we were going to let him go, his eyes flew open, not an objection, but his only way to express the fear.

His tattered body was immobile except for his eyes, eyes that come to me now in the ragged edges of sleep. 

My words wrapped him in a shawl, a gentle rain of things I have said so often and things I could not say before. 

And in the end as I stroked his forehead, words failed me. The profundity of death has no expression. It was silent but that was enough. 

Emily Florence




The stone, tossed by a storm down the canyon’s red walls, comes to rest in a thicket of mint. Jack rabbits and wolves tense at the lonely echoes.

 The warm waxing moon fills the crevices of the canyon and washes the facets of the stone to a brilliance. 

I am the canyon. You are the stone.

Emily Florence