For me, these realities of nature reveal a sense of presto: an inherent poetry to this life, a chance to find meaning and magic in a world we share with such strange creatures.
Read MoreWhat would my craft be, we and I, if not for the lovers I share us with?
Read MoreThat intensity is impossible to replicate as an adult, I think, because it reverts to nostalgia for us.
Read MoreIn the back alley of my mind a taxi leaked orange light against the worst of my wounding and I said, I want to leave that here.
Read MoreWhat we do, what two mistimed people have always done, only ever has one ending. It will never be clearer than it is right now.
Read MoreWhen reporters ask for the secret, you are good at hedging: hard work is a sweet way to say obsession. Pathology is prettier when masked in music.
Read MoreElegy can be messy. Elegy is sometimes unhappy with itself, too. Elegy is regrinding the lens again & again & again. Elegy is a reconstruction of joy.
Read MoreElegy is birthed from such discomfort, a speaker navigating a world that hurts precisely because of its horrible resemblance to the one left behind.
Read MoreElegy is the séance we hold as we pray for a visitation from the ones we have lost. We invite them to haunt us. We sing to them, and listen for song in return.
Read MoreI was praying the only way I knew how. I was trying to build a boat, to take me through the waves of grief on your street, right up to your door.
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