.Here at the Sitting Room we were deeply saddened to hear
of Phyllis’s death and given the important work she’s done
as a poet, teacher and activist we wanted to remember her
in these pages. I am a biography, but when it comes to
writing about the people who were my friends it’s difficult
to separate the emotional residue one feels for the person
one is describing when that person was so dear. In my
mind, I can still see Phyllis’ wide smile. The way, when
she spoke about what she believed in, her whole being
would beam.
Phyllis lived in Sebastopol where for many years we
would gather to workshop our work. Midway through our
workshop we would always stop to have tea, and Phyllis
would pull out a giant basket of teas for us to choose from.
It was such a lovely gesture. After hours of commenting
on each other’s work, we could gather back around her
kitchen table over warm cups of tea to talk about our lives.
Phyllis published five books and chapbooks of poetry,
including Land of My Father’s War (Cherry Grove
Collections, 2019), which won the Artists’ Embassy
International Award; and most recently (Re)Creations,
published by Kelsay Books in 2025. Joy Harjo, U.S. Poet
Laureate, said of Land of My Father’s War, an “urgency of
spirit has emerged eloquently here in these poems of
perception and even prophecy…” And Maxine Hong
Kingston said of (Re)Creations, “O Hope! The Poet cancreate our world again. Phyllis Meshulam breaks apart the
old memes/archetypes/ stories and re-tells them. And
we—her readers and listeners—can make our lives on this
earth anew.”
What follows is a poem from her last collection of poems,
(Re)Creations.
Dear Editor
for Christine Blasey Ford
There’s my grandma waving from the train window,
Smart, probing. What was a girl like that,
born in the 1880s, to do? Write letters,
some to newspapers, teach
Sunday School. When she died,
I hid a few letters in the attic of her house
so something of her would remain.
She speeds past.
There’s me at 24 in therapy.
The couch flashes past like a train car.
The girl is bright, insecure, not pretty.
The therapist is her father’s age,
promises sexual liberation, freedom from
self-doubts. Says he knows what she wants,
what she’s wanted for a long time. She thinks,
I do? I have?
The train speeds along,
driven by a patriarchal God.
I see a train car paneled like the Senate hearing room,
and Dr. Blasey Ford raising her hand,
swearing her truth, shy but certain
11in the chambers of power, like
Susanna of the book of Daniel.
There’s Susanna covering herself with her shawl
while the lecherous elders leer, plot to extort favors.
There are Rebecca Nurse and Martha Corey of Salem,
shaking their heads, loosened by the noose.
Anita Hill presses her face to the glass
to see if anything in the landscape has changed.
I see myself in the window of my laptop,
typing, typing. Writing letter after letter.
One for grandma, another for mom,
one for auntie, one for each daughter,
sister, girlfriend.
All the letters are for the women on this train,
or anyone carrying these scars.
Like a speeding train, I aim letters to papers
across the country, trying to ghost write a reckoning.