Cakes, veal, cheese, pearl onions, pomegranates– what odds does it make? You will find these are the cakes of an expert hand, rough with age, tough with sun. Under the green oaks, out on the salt plains, do we not all wander like Hagar, like Lot?

My darling, if God will send a ram! There are some things too sacred not to laugh at.


I meet him in the cool of the day, in the shade of the green trees, under a sky like a golden plum. I offer him a meal; I offer him rest. I hold his neck, tasting the sweat on him. His left hand is at my waist, each nail a crescent moon of soil.

“If it is a son we will call him Cain,” I whisper, hopeful, terrified.

Potiphar’s Wife

High summer with your garden-ripe tomatoes, your freckles, your spent teabags and ice condensating on glass, how I miss him! Only you, only you can understand, who were there with me for the early morning coffee on the porch when the heat was already drawing the dew from the grass and the splinter in my forearm was the least of my woes– the least of my joys.
When he left me here, with his garment in my hand, what choice did I have but to make him pay?