poetry
Last night, you reached for my eyelashes as we rocked, and you burst into the sweetest laughter. A laughter that sounded different, like it was meant only for me, when we were just two, rocking back and forth as you got drowsy in my arms. And the day before, you laid your little head on…
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“Find out if you are a city still worth burning….” ….is one of my favorite lines from J. Bradley and this awesome project. Help support this amazing creative endeavor! “A full-length graphic poetry collection about the death of love, about the grief and anger that folllow, about a small new hope.” Check out their Kickstarter…
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When she wakes, the air crisps like cellophane. And I wrap her arms in wool, in my arms, in lavender-smelling blankets. Her hands have already doubled in size – and she reaches for my face, my cheeks, and dips her forehead to mine. By midday, summer heat has returned, and we un-layer like shedding snakes,…
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A fresh tear makes its way across my reddened cheek bone and lands where my lips meet each other then puddles until my tongue lifts to meet its salty flavor. It has been a while since I tasted my own tears. Weeks actually. But this one tastes familiar. The briny texture of the taste of…
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We stood, on a woven rug in the middle of golden trees and mineral dirt, to hold hands across a space we hadn’t yet crossed. Next to a quiet river, and rock formations that were born long before – we became new; not one and not separate, but different. Changed. Expanded. And for a moment…
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about being pregnant. But I wrote one when I was only 10 weeks along. I have been saying how hard it is to write about pregnancy because it is something so universal and yet, so absolutely personal…putting it in a crazy category filled with cliches and sentimentality, but also unique perspectives and individual feelings. Pregnancy…
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I had been reading the news for days – but it wasn’t until I saw the news clip, (each wire mesh railing being removed by large, unromantic trucks) that my chest got heavy and I choked back a whole beautiful moment, resting in a lavender lock—attached forever to a railing destined for the Paris graveyard…
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I have felt a charge in every movement since I first held a pencil. I am in the process of everything. I want to become a movie, nonfiction, a documentary, of living. I am failing language. Pushing electric over dead sentences. At times, it is too much. I become too much, in small ways– a…
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It begins. A theatrical memorization, fraught with tightly coiled, inhabitable language. We move with abstraction, completely past. completely present. Context always fades. I feel full and enveloped in wonder. But language becomes impossible as metaphors, once full of life, stumble on the verge of sleep. Temperature overrides each breath. Lungs caught in the middle of…
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