Jacob brings Leah the idea of opening their relationship to Rachel.
A poem that squeezes humor and even transcendence out of my obsessiveness, ineptitude, and rotten choices. I'm guessing many can relate in various ways.
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I'm not hysterical about Trump, and I don't worry much about anti-Semitism. Though I'm no optimist, the panic surrounding me feels unduly intense. Let's hope I'm right.
What's the point of talking about ourselves? What's the point in avoiding it?
How can a day that seems so hostile to creativity be the wellspring from which all creativity flows?
Elizabeth reflects on the pervasive and surreal post-election mood, in an ode to pain and patience.
