december two-thousand-seventeen

these are portraits of people i have sat with, talked with, looked at. they have burned before me with life, and i have tried to take that fire and walk it into the page. sometimes we were overwhlemed by the smoke, other times we felt the clarity of the space between us. i remember once a man asked me how i knew, how did i know so well who he was. i told him i want to believe a poet is a prophet, someone who can read what hasn’t been written.

becca

the rain left its water

on the lavender in the kitchen window well i know this

by the way the moon wears it i close the window

lay the lavender down

in my arms and say

you are felt

you are here to stay

audrianne

there is a woman in the pink salt lake sunset stark

from the womb of the moon which has waned to nothing

she is full and exfoliated exhaled by the black murmuration in the wind there is nothing in the body for this kind of breathing

calvin

i met a man once

he met me too

underneath this meeting there was another

meeting meeting the meeting it was so close that

that man left me

meeting myself

the rest of our lives

juanita

the sea will not

let me leave will not

open without me headfirst diving into its fervency swimming to the tune

of its blue force

i open my eyes underneath it pretend the ocean

is the largest tear of joy

ive ever made

[sold out]