Summer 2003
The air is hot and heavy, and mosquitoes buzz in the night, rocking chairs squeak on warped floorboards. The lightbulb above them is...
to the men in my life / on letting go
The night I met him he played me guitar I watched his fingers pluck the weathered strings I saw the world in his fingertips His room was...
Staccato
the first time you write a poem in 2 years there is glass under your shoes, sparkling like September frost. You are wishing your shoe...
Senses
Illusions get clearer and clearer, As they obscure where the reality lies, In a world full of smoke and mirrors, To really see, I close...
Which is First?
I wonder what my ancestors would think of me becoming an English teacher or of me falling in love with English so hard that it’s the...
To Sew a Story
Blue cursive letters, neatly curled and l(ink)ed, as though threaded with a pen through the page. I've heard of people who weave a story,...