V Drank a Whole Bottle of Pom

Much like the pomegranate

you contain multitudes.

You laugh in morsels and

to love you is pyrrhic,

for in your hands is panacea

concinnated like pearls on a line.

You’re worth this night and each night —

with straight teeth

you tear apart the pulp of things.

A woman inheriting death

deserves first to taste life.

Sister, On Your Heart

Not even the Earth
has quite so many rooms.
I imagine holding it
firmly in hand
would do damage,
which is perhaps why
few could venture to rip it
from the sky, say,
or drop it whole into
even the softest palm.

His is a solar wind,
your heart the plum:
the blue dot shivering,
and all along it’s known
itself as just another
in the spinning void.
Is it magic, then,
to be held lightly,
freed from darkness,
and flood forever
those rooms with light?

Dedicated to Hannah Williams, on her wedding day 02/08/2020


You meet me at the bridge and ask me to discard my scales. Urgently: you say it’s time for me to join you above. It’s simple, you say, just pull them out like so many fingernails. You do not have them, so you do not know. You’ve given me no clippers so I must dig in and rip them out from the root.

It takes hours. You grow bored, you drowse beneath a tree nearby. My blood stains the swamp and it bubbles in my wounds. I’m cleansed by black water tannins. My sides and legs shredded and oozing, I roll onto the riverbank. You gather me up in the net of your arms.

You have a place for me in a nice suburban home. I’ll have a family: someone to look after me each day. There is awe and love in your eyes. I have hidden my gills; I hope that as I learn to breathe your air, they do not fall away.

Cosmology in Her Skin

I now allow myself to write
those velvet throats, those waves of female form,
without discrediting the work
as politic instead of rather than also poetic.

I touch a woman and learn long dead languages, taste her breath and tides pull me under,
where the ocean names my atoms
reminds me all I’d know
if the Earth herself were my politics.

The swamp is my reliquary, and deep within, death and life and death sing across the waters.
She too carries this candor, her body equally unnavigable without submission. I’ve learned this:
How could I see the naked world

and wish it clothed? How could I breathe good air filtered over light years, bequeathed to me by the stars I count beside my lover,

and wish to bottle it? Nothing, not poetry, not politics, will spare me if I cannot spare her.

Short Night Worries (8)

At night, I worry about missed connections. It was possible something minutely divine was at play, in the vein of spying the last ripe avocado, or ripping the tag off a new shirt. Life just seemed a little better for the sinfulness. A message here or there, a provocative dream, a craving late at night when they were each alone. If only they knew what was a beginning and what was a detour.


Finally finished with this Lost and Found film based on early animation clips available at the Library of Congress. Follow this white rabbit into a lucid dream, and allow yourself for just a moment to reinvent your reality.

Hope you enjoy!

Short Night Worries (6)

Last night I worried about guardian angels. Are they ever disappointed in us? Why do they stick around? What if they don’t get to choose who they are guarding; maybe if we don’t connect with them they disappear.

Writers in Love with Cigarettes (and Other Negative Concepts)

The rule is not to get too sentimental. Never confess love, never cry, never think about the deceased, never focus on only the good in the world. All of the ways we live fulfilling lives; don’t let them show when it’s time to write. Instead, start the scene with the ashes of the bridge filling up empty sneakers. Start with something breaking, a relationship ending, a high school student’s head in the toilet, a cigarette burn in a cashmere sweater. Let everyone know that their way of living is hypocritical, remind them they don’t care that the world turns itself or that blood is 83% water.

The rule is not to be lonely, unless it is romanticized. A woman cannot simply lay in bed alone and wish the ceiling would collapse on her. No. The ceiling must be the wooden floorboards of the room above her, filled with thick cracks, so that while she is lying in bed alone, she can hear the family above her. She knows the weight of the husband’s steps and can measure the wife’s anxiety by the follicles of dust that shake down. She knows when the pregnancy tests turn up negative, because she isn’t the only one trying to keep quiet when she sobs at night.

Writers magnify every emotion, each a dead leaf waiting to be burnt under the lens. They use their own, painted over with stage makeup or mud, and let them fill up the hearts of other people. The rule, then, is never to be seen. Play a game of hide and seek with your reader, tell them you will count to fifty and they had better be hidden. Then leave them to play your game on their own, taking only what you’ve given them. Get a cup of coffee. Answer a crossword puzzle. Wait and see how long they will believe what you have told them, their hands over their eyes.

Sometimes, it’s easy to become nostalgic for your childhood. You thought that every writer wondered about all the foods a green caterpillar could eat, and imagined their toys coming alive. You thought it was romantic to be unloved, and to sit alone on the swing sets at recess, kicking your penny loafers in the gravel and humming a song about birds. And maybe it was, but no writer would see that. They would see that you were scuffing up your shoes and think you probably caused your mother endless anxiety. Then they would decide you were mistreated at home and maybe your mother didn’t care because she was a meth addict and then they would throw in something about suicide, because, why not? Everything hurts and no one is happy. How could they be, when there is a child outside in the cold all by herself? What does that say about the world she lives in?

The rule is not to let their criticism hurt you. The rule is to listen to what they have to say and remember that they are probably right. The old woman dying was, indeed, abrupt. Old women don’t just die. It doesn’t matter if all she had to live for was watering her ferns, she should have at least kept living, kept on watering those damn ferns of hers. Her death is a crutch. You were lazy. Because, you know, that’s what lazy writers do. They snap their fingers and kill their own creations. So, in a way, the rule is not to be lazy.

Listen. Writing is an easy mask to wear. It’s comfortable, it changes form. It doesn’t take much to become someone else. Someone else who can say what they want, be numb to emotions – their own and those around them. They don’t have to take criticism. They don’t have to follow rules. They aren’t the ones writing. Maybe that is why a little girl would be attracted to fairy tales and poetry; the literary equivalent to carnival masks.