Posted in Truth


It was three years before The Vagina Monologues
I wondered if I’d heard correctly
then I didn’t. I had.
There it was
out loud
the word : plural
“ tell your cunts to cover their heads.”

She had a point.
It was a hospital kitchen
they had been getting a little slack about hair nets.
It may have been directed at me
a male island, in a sea of 37 women
a warning I wasn’t being tough enough
that things were on the slide.
Or not to let them be.

I confided in another department head
they weren’t surprised
then added benediction, “ she’s really scrubbed up her language”
apparently when Theatre Supervisor
the air was blue most days – all day.

Still, imagine the headlines
male assistant manager
of exclusive private hospital
points to a group of middle aged women and
barks at female catering manager
“ tell your cunts to cover their heads.”



Most of my life has been spent on the bench, occasionally called into the game by extravagance or attenuation. Waiting has turned a loner into a recorder - nondescript and inconsequential, more not noticed than overlooked - the non-vantage point of children not yet considered old enough to understand. Orphaned Islands (Un)poetry is a lifetime of picking anecdotes up and not throwing them away. Stories collected like odds and ends placed in a box in the basement, the garage, the garden shed - uncertain as to what their use might be but knowing that one day there might be one.