“To write is also not to speak. It is to keep silent. It is to howl noiselessly. ”
All in Poetry
It was known they lived on song / and when they opened their mouths, / water poured out.
my head is a house with windows and a door / my face is a curtain to keep me warm
When I speak, she hears me / muffled but voluminous, / like Jonah listening inside the whale…
the boots so worn his feet are / slouched on one edge of each sole, / so if you unlaced them, they would / fall away, no bones.
they say it is death, but also a place to live, if you have gills, if / you are a mermaid, which I am, of course.
a bird’s beak knocking on a nearby tree, last drips of precipitation landing dull but satisfied on the soaked tops of leaves…
Last night the new moon broke open across my shoulders. / Then dawn came through the trees / in pinpoints of varying sizes / like starlight glowing among the leaves.