My mom, Janice Miller Potter, has just released her collection Meanwell, a series of 24 poems told from the imagined point of view of Puritan poet Anne Bradstreet's servant. I read it for the first time myself yesterday, and it really is a lovely and tragic tale of the history of women's speech and silence.
In other news, the freezer-delivery men arrive this morning, and Little Dorrit's father has just died in Rome. Also, to add a surreal note to these mundanities, my vet has told me that my poodle is addicted to water. Who knew such a thing could happen to a perfectly nice middle-class dog?