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This is a curated space for poetry and prose that weaves my lived experiences with the sensibilities of a writer whose love language is myth and metaphor. I especially enjoy writing prose poetry, frequently falling in love with its borrowed forms—including the structure and unexpected creativity of various “hermit crab” poems—as well as the magical surrealism of the “new prose poem.”
An ambient glow casts its theatre of shadow and shade. Closing your eyes won’t make time stand still. I would argue it does, but the old ticking clock disagrees…
I never thought to look for the mackerel sky or the mare’s tail of a cirrus cloud. Would it have made any difference? I doubt it…
continue reading the prose poem “mackerel skies & mare’s tails” »
birthright
They discovered her in Austria, just a tiny little thing of immense proportions buried beneath the rubble and birthplace of my female ancestors. The divine providence of this is not lost on me. I’m speaking of the lovely Venus of Willendorf of course. The male scientists who pulled her from the ground claimed she was a gross exaggeration of the female form, almost too ridiculous to imagine. They had no idea they were looking at a literal goddess. But when I saw this tiny statue with her striking, gratuitous silhouette I knew better…
At its fullest flush, a peach is so strong it can protect its soft, juicy flesh even as it falls from the highest tree. But once fully ripened, it bruises from the slightest touch. I wonder if this means that I, too, am fully ripened…
I have written everything from staff training manuals and periodic newsletters to interpretive gallery text for small museum exhibits and rousing feminist commentary. But my real love has always belonged to prose and verse. My poetry was first recognized in high school when I turned an essay about the plight of the White Rhino into a poetic appeal for empathy and intervention. I currently reside in the quiet space where suburbia meets old forest and fading wetland. I live there with my longtime companion and our sweet and spicy rescue cat, Hazel—who is slowly learning that biting is, in fact, bad.
She is fat like Gargantua, insatiable and gluttonous, her unbridled appetite feasting upon food, wine, books, language, and love.…
He knew I didn’t want anyone to see us together, but he smiled whenever he saw me, walking close enough so that he could whisper my name. Sometimes, as I stood with friends at recess, cloistered together at our lockers, I would feel a soft, feathery caress slide across my back, only to catch a glimpse of his thick black hair as he walked by …
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“It was strange to see the cautionary tale walk into the room dressed up as a coming of age. The reservations had been cancelled. Invitations torn up and tossed in the trash. Instead, He’d found an old abandoned rabbit hole and threw her in…”
