It only takes a moment, and then her body burns, the skin lifting away in the shape of leaves—an oak, a willow branch, a maple— as if she’s known this language for years. She is screaming, she is speaking in tongues, she is a woman lost in dreams. Around here, it is only heat… Read More The Fire of Twenty-Thirteen
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… Read More Rewrite
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… Read More Writing Process
