Afterfeel: Another World Beneath My Eyelids. {poetry}
In this world, there is my golden city and there is its womb being torn open and bursting... There is screaming. In it is a cold August.
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poetry
The Womb of My Mother. {poetry}
I continue to break unhealthy patterns of my ancestors, of my grandmother, of my mother, of my sister and of me. This is the way of awakening.
The Water Mumbled Mantra Into My Dreams. {poetry}
Children jack-knife off rock perches, lovers kiss, moms float babies downstream cradled in bright inner tubess, lap-happy dogs paddle the water.
We Regress Back to Refined Terror. {poetry}
In this war, those who have everything will fight back, as they did in the Renaissance. Nobody can live in half a palace.
Mama: On Never Fully Receiving a Mother’s Love. {poetry}
What if that love was only fractionally given, leaving a sense memory of what is longed for but can no longer be fulfilled?
In Retreat as Collateral Damage. {poetry}
My fire? All sucked off me alongside my verve, my royalty. I have nothing left but bulging bones and thoughts in the foreground of my evanesced presence.
What Happens When an Illusion Finally Ends? {poetry}
You just woke up from an illusion that you should not stand in the dark, that darkness would swallow you if you didn’t run from it.
Ancestor Mother: The Story Is Sacred Medicine. {poetry}
I’ve been walking with the Eve creation story, the one I was told in Sunday school, finding the ways in which she has sung through my voice.
How to Treat a Bereaved Mother: A Possible Guide. {poetry}
How someone bereaved feels and how they choose to, or very often just do, act is valid, even if, to an outsider, they seem to have lost control.
How Do We Embrace the Jagged Narratives? {poetry}
The narratives explode leaving us wounded and ashamed. Some days we wish the turbulence would go away and the nasty past and continued present weren't true.