Lenore Weiss

I climbed, or more exactly, drove up the hill. Over the last seven years, developers had transformed Campus Drive from a weed patch leading to Merritt College, into a row

I spent my life married to an assortment of alcoholics, musicians and mental patients who made interesting, but unreliable mates. Clearly, I wasn’t getting younger and like the Fifth Element

In that moment, I knew what to do—sat in front of  my computer exactly twenty-four hours before my flight was scheduled, got ready to enter my booking number, and pressed

When I’m in a Walt Whitman state of mind I want to hug every new mother I see wheeling a sleeping infant in a stroller, a boy on a skateboard

The begonia survived the winter wind Smashing its pot on the porch Bits falling down the stairs like a slinky Heading toward the bottom Picked up by the root ball

I had two older sisters, but grew up feeling like an only child. We were five years apart and I was the youngest. My sisters called me the baby, and