On Friday afternoons the mood in the typing pool was a gathering storm. Heads bent tensely over keyboards. Machines clacked. High on the wall hung a big clock like a cold sun above the room. As the hour hand moved toward five the atmosphere became electric. …

I wrote novels, then poetry, late in my career. Up to then, my focus was on short stories. I produced one after another for about nine years until finally, one found a home. It took another seven or eight years before I was regularly publishing them, and my first collection…

Poetry is a visual expression, even when it’s about politics, or feminism, or how nasty people can be. In poems, words evoke both what we feel and see. This is important to me, I’d say even crucial. …

Meeting Moira for coffee is like getting my teeth cleaned. I know it’s going to hurt, I think of reasons not to go, then go anyway. For the dentist, there’s an appointment, and it looms on my calendar. Moira doesn’t make appointments. She texts and demands my presence. She tends…