When I was a child of about 7 or 8, I started writing poems. I didn’t start by writing short stories or coming up with characters and oh the places they’d go. No. I wrote short, dark, insightful poems. I also hid in the closet a lot. Some things haven’t changed. Some things have. For instance, my poems are longer now.
But my voice hasn’t changed much since I was a child. High pitched, squeaky, many giggles to hide my nervousness. The same goes for my poems. I like these that I’ve listed here. There are a thousand I did not like enough to share. This is a “read at your own risk” space. Bon voyage.
- Four Bouquets
- What is a worry to a child?
- The Echo of my Question comes in Question Form (Published on Drunken Boat)
- In Digestion
- How to Forget your Trauma
- What you Should When I Die
- The Defeatist Speaks of Endings
- Playing at Dead
- A Poem about Spaces
- On Running Away
- How to Thread a Needle
- How to Fix a Broken Window
- How to Pick a Lock
- Poem for Dante, Who Traveled Far to Get Here
- It’s a Beautiful Day in Jerusalem!
- Epiphany on the Downtown Train
- Poems from the Train
- Detachable Me
- On Wide Open Spaces
- My Mother Called it Morning
- Daughter of None
Thank you for being here. Thank you for loving me. Let’s eat.