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In a Weigh Down Workshop once I was taught to recognize true signs of hunger. They taught me to stave off those feelings— with a half glass of juice and a little prayer. They said what I felt was spiritual hunger, that I must learn to be fed with spiritual food. I lost thirty-six pounds.…

Ah! That honey-baked ham.

The Old Church, on the Thames embankment, couldn’t welcome people with a blaze of lights in its porch because of the blackout regulations. Tiny slits of brightness had to guide the way.

if the kitchen reminds of us of anything, it’s that a new day always follows the last one. And, in it, the sun will rise. And then someone will need to make breakfast: fry an egg, put the coffee on, wash and dry the dishes left to soak. If we’re lucky, the kitchen is a place we go to keep ourselves alive. If we’re luckier still, it offers an occasion to be tender: with ourselves, with someone else, with the accumulating fabric of our days. There’s weight, and grace, in the way hours stack together. The work they offer us. The waiting they demand.

I drink in the morning & it is beautiful

Mass livid w/ purple, pale yellow, bruise swelling over the
Outer Banks & the Carolinas, do Tígers swim in the deep
foaming blues off the bight?

The ghosts of our dead can only watch as we dance.

A rip is a wound—and also a place where brightness filters in. But the potential for light doesn’t mean the tearing doesn’t hurt.

I think about how my grandmother greeted death. She was ready. What a blessing.

Say you could only count to six.
Say seven didn’t exist—no Sabbath, no holy

rest, no end to week.