Sunday, May 20, 2007





Hidden Water



A girl was in a wheelchair on her porch
And wasps were swarming in the cornice

She had just washed her hair
When she took it down she combed it

She could see
Just like I could

The one star under the rafter
Quivering like a knife in the creek

She was thin
And she made me think

Of music singing to itself
Like someone putting a dulcimer in a case

And walking off with a stranger
To lie down and drink in the dark






by Frank Stanford



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About Me

I came to Minneapolis from southern California this May to help my 88-year-old mother care for my 86-year-old father. He fell last November, and then declined cognitively for a month as his bones healed at a rehab facility under quarantine. He hasn't undeclined. Before retiring in the 1990s, he was a theater critic, & still seems to have some of his self-confidence and wit alongside vascular dementia, Parkinsonisms, incontinence and real trouble walking. Given his otherwise-ok health, he might still have some tolerable years ahead, though with new parameters. My mom's a novelist. She seems made of iron.