L U M I N A * N O S T R I

If You are Going To Marry A Poet Be careful about the day you choose.  Dooms Day, for example, may be the day which  allows your brother and her brother in law, and the family from Canada to be there, even though you gave far too little notice. But in year seven, when she's tired of breeding, of changing, of boundary setting and shifting, a poet will look at that day and go "See? We were doomed from the start." 

A Small Gift From Our Neighbor Shameful, really,  how I can't remember the first time.  I think it was chocolate- I know  it was delivered in a tight, clear, pyrex with a purple lid. It always is.  The children raise squeals like piglets at the trough, and I rummage the cabinets for the silver moon-shaped scooper. Our neighbor's small gift? Homemade heaven  on our tongues. 

 Far From Perfect In another life, I was a Latin teacher, and I have a sneaking suspicion I was the bad kind. For example, I'd  tell the students perficio was Latin for I thoroughly do, to show off, a little, but also to pontificate about my theories on life and meaning.  Like a math teacher, I'd scribble down my proof-  each red principle part with it's English meaning in green. Then, woosh! I'd spin toward them with a ring-master's enthusiasm,  after having underlined the past participle, and offer a little dramatic pause.   "So you see, class," I'd say, as if presenting the verb’s final trick to a room full of…well, teens whose hormones raced due to anything but Latin, whose eyes darted to the clocks  hidden in their pockets, tucked under their desks,  sometimes boldly behind their books, "you never want to be perfect- because having been thoroughly done ,  if you really think about it, would have to mean, obviously,  that you'...