DiaBLOGue

Woman See

I did not just sit down and say, “This is going to be a dance in eight parts.” It evolved. When I was finishing the choreography, I visited Josephine Withers (no relation), an historian of…

The Dancer and I

As I watch, astonished, 

what I hunger for 
is not what I know I 
cannot do

Old Woman Driving

She lives on a street of white haired men 
with time for hosing the cracks. 

She goes to funerals amid people 
whose names she cannot remember,

Divided

His call came dressed 
In honor 
As the President grasped 
For a handshake, 

For Linda

If only there were daisies here in tin cans. 
These flowers are too nice: ivory-tongued anthurium, 
gladiola mouths holding their long, red O’s 
while Sister Smith whispers, “Aren’t the roses 

The Last Project

In our many years together Bert and I faced many trials, but working together, we managed to bring to successful conclusion all the projects that come with a good marriage. We raised seven children while…

Birthing

Dialogue 14.4 (Fall 1981): 117–124
So this was birthing, this crazy-quilt of contrasts, of senses and feelingsin chaos, coming occasionally to rest, as now, with a sleeping son in the crookof my arm. Had I won the grand prize?

A Time of Decision

“You are ‘pro-choice’ aren’t you?” mumbled the young legislator at his desk as he pored over my application. Anticipating my response, he wrote the label boldly across the front page. I asked why the label…

My Personal Rubicon

Living in our nation’s capital during the recent ERA controversies has been a learning experience for me. After the turmoil of the 1975 IWY Conference in Utah, I spent a good deal of time trying…

Mary Fielding Smith: Her Ox Goes Marching On

I should preface these remarks by establishing two things. First, I am no blood relation to Mary Fielding Smith, although, like all of you, I proudly claim her for a spiritual sister; second, my subject…