The office is small and modest,
with a window behind the mahogany desk and an overflowing bookcase to the
right. There are mountains of manuscripts—some stacked neatly on the surface,
some piling overtop of one another on the floor. Framed book covers line the
walls, most of which, you’ve read at least twice, if not three times. You pause
to stare at them when you walk in. You take a deep breath and exhale.
There are three of them here for
you. An intern sits in a chair to the left. The three execs sit behind the
desk. The window is open, because the room is cramped and it’s mid-summer. You
wish it were cooler. The room cools down. Everyone feels it. They look around,
confused, then look at you, remembering.… ...continue reading
The day was
sweltering. There was a distinct smoky smell of baking skin, of salty sweat
breaking through layers of carefully applied make-up and deodorant and cologne.
It was the first sunny day of summer and by 11AM it had reached peak
temperatures, threatening to break records. On the radio they were calling it
an Irish Heatwave as it neared the mid-twenties, encouraging everyone to get
their sun-cream on and their swim trunks out, and journey to Dun Laoghaire or
The Strand for a day of sea and sand, one not to be missed.
I knew the
scorching temperatures were no accident – that they would come on this day
seemed entirely appropriate, as I drove away from Dublin, early that morning,
overwhelmed by the aroma of sweating leather and the sizzle of metal from my
seat belt.… ...continue reading
The plane to Charlotte is late and the gate won’t open for air. Lights pass in the sky, and one must be the twinkle in your eye. Travelers hold little mirrors in their hands, without reflection, unaware the massive amount of breathing in this place, all of us existing in a box until the mask on a mouth can’t save us, and more than a plane goes down. Without notice. Without time to reach for the hand in the next seat over. I’m stuck at this gate between here and there, just waiting, counting breaths, while you so quietly moved on.
Author’s Note: This poem started when I received a phone call that a friend had died. I was waiting at the gate for my plane and wasn’t able to embrace my emotions at the time.… ...continue reading
Carolyn Turgeon’s appearance evokes an otherworldly elegance effusive with joy. With her long dark hair, complete with shiny streak of navy blue, red lipstick, and big blue eyes, Carolyn Turgeon seems herself to be a high priestess, the kind of magical creature who would be right at home in her sumptuous fantasy worlds.
Turgeon learned to love reading as an escape from her shy, dislocated childhood. She says, “I loved being alone in my room and reading.”
By chance, Turgeon’s mother brought home a book from the Betsy-Tacy and Tib series once by accident. These books by Maud Heart Lovelace had a tremendous impact on Turgeon’s development as a writer. Protagonist Betsy grows up in a small Minnesota town, reading as much as she can, climbing trees, and hoping to become a writer.… ...continue reading
Author’s Note: This poem is from my recently completed chapbook, Where the Waters Still. This collection contains work exploring grief, loss, and the body, often through a mythological lens. … ...continue reading
