Margaret Coombs

I’ll finish up Dickens’ Bleak House by the end of November. I might want to tackle another Dickens long read in 2026. I read Oliver Twist, David Copperfield, The Pickwick Papers, and A Tale of Two Cities in high school. It may be time to reread one or more of them. I want to read…

I finished chapter four of Rebecca Solnit’s book of essays, Hope in the Dark: Untold Histories, Wild Possibilities, “False Hope and Easy Despair.” She wrote this in the aftermath of 9/11 and the Bush wars, but nothing is limited to that time. It easily applies today. There’s false hope in the claim that ICE raids…

I’m reading my way through the grief of losing my younger sister Jean. Books are wonderful companions. They fill the gap when one’s own words disappear into death’s maw and there’s a freshly dug emptiness in one’s heart.

I have enough poems gathered to begin to work on my third book of poetry. I can already tell that there will be more shadows in the mix. Poems won’t just be about sunshine and gardens. I’ve got secrets to share, ugliness to reveal, fears to overcome. It doesn’t mean that the luminous joy of…

Because of three deaths in one month, I consider my own mortality. In the past, I assumed that I would be like my grandfather, mother, and father, and live until I reached my mid-nineties. For the first time, I understand that no one knows the date of their death, or when or how it will…