Publications
Poetry
“Two Haikus,” Haiku Journal #22 (2013)
a caw lingers
on arid pine-scented air
bouquets smell of fall
* * *
bent grass tells of flood
spent before the morning sun
frogs croak for their mates
“On a Warm Summer’s Day,” Kairos: An independent quarterly of liberal religion, Number 14 (Spring 1979)
The gulls were quiet
on that warm summer’s day
Soaring over the cool water of the bay
Personal Narrative
I followed an earthen path through Monterey cypresses and pines that grew out of a carpet of ferns. Wind roared through the upper branches of the hundred-foot trees but as I walked, the air grew still and almost warm. And almost silent too—not even rustles from the squirrels, rabbits and birds I knew were around—only the soft crunch of my footsteps as I walked on dried needles.
“What it’s like to have an invisible disability at work,” Marketplace, National Public Radio, interviewed by Pauline Velasco (June 22, 2018)
In my new job, I was a technical writer, and one of the problems I have is word retrieval. So I would use the wrong word, “what” instead of “want,” that sort of thing. So one of the things that I really asked for was somebody to just proofread my work. And my boss said no.
“Waiting in Time,” It’s About Time, A Main Street Rag Anthology, Edited by Kathie Giorgio (2016)
It’s 1991. I hit my head on a shelf at work and suddenly time, or rather my recognition of its passage from now to then, is negligible. I live in the moment, the past and future other realms that take effort to notice…
3 Columns on Disabilities, News & Observer, Raleigh, NC (2016)
Applying for Disability is Not for the Faint of Heart (9/14/2016): The hearing was daunting. The judge sat on a dais so high that I, standing there in front of him, had to crane my neck to see him. And it was humiliating. He approved my claim only after being told by a man who researched such things, there was not one job I was capable of doing.
Feeling a Loss of Self (7/20/2016): The loss of self I felt after my injury, though, ran deeper than just a career, though I do not dismiss such losses. My injury affected aspects of what I felt were my core being: working, listening to music, dancing, reading, driving.”
“You Don’t Look Disabled” (4/27/2016): I used to say, “I get lost in space,” which I thought was a very clear, concise statement of the problem: I can’t tell by looking how far I am from a wall or a ceiling or from people moving around me.
Fiction
“Woman Who Would Be Wolf” Does It Have Pockets? (2024)
I wish to run with my dogs over wide plains of alabaster, trusting them to find the packed snow covering ice, and skirt around the hardened skin covering soft billowy powder. Even in wind that cuts the surface into grooves and builds ridges. Even when air swirls icy mists around us as the dogs pull and I push the sled over the uneven ground.
“Driving Lessons,” Carolina Woman, Writing Contest, Second Place (2020)
I followed an earthen path through Monterey cypresses and pines that grew out of a carpet of ferns. Wind roared through the upper branches of the hundred-foot trees but as I walked, the air grew still and almost warm. And almost silent too—not even rustles from the squirrels, rabbits and birds I knew were around—only the soft crunch of my footsteps as I walked on dried needles.
“The Last Synapse,” County Lines: A Literary Journal, Franklin County Arts Commission (2013)
He smiled when he saw her, a smile that faded when he received no returning smile. He still saw her as she once was, a vibrant handsome woman even in age, who stood by him, no matter what, who could satisfy his every desire once the bedroom door was closed, who looked at him with unembarrassed admiration. He missed her.
“Smitten,” Red Clay Review, Central Carolina Community College (2013)
After scooping some salad onto her plate and taking a piece of corn bread, she followed the ragged line outside. She wondered again: what exactly is a pig pickin’? … As she drew closer she saw a grill, and—Good God—what looked like a carcass all torn up and crumbly like the bread inside on the table.