Rewrite

I’m reworking “The Nightsky Often Looks Like a Mound of Feathers” and retitled the poem (I may re-use this title in a future poem). Here’s the result: A LETTER TO CALICO SKIN 1. Early on, you appeared like a curled robe on the side of a highway, like a young woman dying in the corner…

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Speech Impediment

You often says things in which I can say little in return—my growing deficiency—and the sky turns yellow. We lay a blanket in a field in the middle of nowhere and return to find it covered in earth that cannot grow. We lie in this space and stare into a sky filled with clouds that…

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Writing Process

This is one of those poems that is not very good, needs a ton of editing but will not get out of my head. I imagine part of it will be useful, but for now, this is it, in its roughest form. THE NIGHTSKY OFTEN LOOKS LIKE A MOUND OF FEATHERS. 1. Ever since you…

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No Skin Included.

Break open the branch. Inside– there is lime and tree foam. Like marrow. The white liquid that illuminates the skin, full of leaves and freshly-plucked strawberries. Like dawn, opening: he captures this about her in a painting, surrounds her with blood oranges, places roses around her face. The girl becomes something like a funeral, the…

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Analecta Publication

Saturday evening, in conjunction with Jim Daniels’ reading, was the IU South Bend student writing awards and the first reveal of the 2012 Analecta. Since I was unable to attend, I just picked up my copy, and I’ve spent the past hour or so flipping through it, reading it, admiring it. This very well might…

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Jim Daniels at IU South Bend

Tonight, Jim Daniels appeared at the IU South Bend English Department Student Writing Awards and performed a reading. Unfortunately for me, I was unable to attend the reading. Call it an example of how a writer must lead a double-life, split between the artistic edge of experiencing poetry and functioning within the “real world” and/or…

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The Silent Film

In this dream, I have lost you, and suddenly my heart has turned and I am dreaming about a man who has died. In his fury, he cut open his hands. I become the girl who can see him, can see the blood and the way it looks like a family of birds, red crows,…

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A Poem–different from my usual work

SPRING MORNING It is without a word that you follow me outside like a lumbering shadow. We reach the sidewalk, our steps matching. Wind tangles in my hair as we pass apartment doorways and windows. It is when we see the shadows of two people making love through an illuminated curtain that we realize I…

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When He Asked Her to Turn Him into a Poem

She removed his shirt and pushed him into the moonlight. He became all silvery skin. And so she painted him—deep black covered portions of his arms, his hands, his face, until finally she moved him out of the moonlight. He disappeared, except for a hand here, a limb there, and also his eyes, the pale…

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Nights that Dreamed Her Open

There was a morning when she opened herself to horses— it was a sort of release, the wind and soft petals under her toes. She waited out in the field, their bodies lingering off on the horizon. They looked black against the sun, manes twisting, all muscle. She imagined their eyes, like dew and something…

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