Hi there, I have new poems published in the Fall Issue of Menacing Hedge. I love when I have new work out and find that I’m in the same issue with poet friends of mine. Please take a look at Martha McCollough’s work too!
Exit music for a film
Oh dear dear dears,
I rage a lot. I do rage pilates. I drink rage wine. And this isn’t the good rage like a party rager where you stay up all night and throw lamps and eat large bowls of cereal at 3 am.
This is the quiet underneath my skin rage all the time at the injustices of the world. Until I am raged to a breaking point. I am comforted by the fact that we are all in this together and that we care and we will fight.
Transitions
Dear Dears,
From O’s school, we have learned about about transitions. How to take our bodies from one place to another and understand that we are going from one environment to another, and how that means to change our behavior. From learning behavior to recess behavior. From work mom to home mom and back again.
Transitions are a bitch. Continue reading “Transitions”
Un-earthing
Hello Friends,
Welcome to spring/almost summer: a feeling of sun on skin, flower bloom, biking, and blinking at this new world. A new world, which is the same as the old world, except everything is upside down and horrible things are happening on an almost daily basis.
[Pause. Deep breath.]
“Would your husband describe you as a worrywart?”
Dear Dears,
I am an anxious person. I have struggled with anxiety my whole life, though only really it nailed it down a year ago. Panic attacks, worrying thoughts, stress about interactions… all of it.
In light of this, I thought it would be fun (because of course it is fun to talk about horrible things) to list out some of my random anxious thoughts. These worries are annoying and partially legitimate, and therefore it feels like I would be doing myself a disservice if I didn’t worry about them.
Continue reading ““Would your husband describe you as a worrywart?””
An intro of sorts
Dear my dears,
This is the part of me I have neglected for so long. My running monologue, my preposterous personas, my artless utterings. I would talk to myself out loud all day long if left to it. The minute I’m alone, my mouth opens and fragments and half-questions falls from my lips. Usually about weather or coffee or chores. But then again, sometimes, I swear, I am more interesting than that.
Where to begin.
I made my first book when I was 23. And now I am 41. I know that is a surprise to some of you. Age is a mind-fuck for me. I know I am an adult and am supposed to be an authority, but I still feel high school on my skin. We can’t escape our younger selves altogether. It’s true.
Sometimes I can’t believe we are middle age. We are the MIDDLE AGE. We are still drinking beers and sitting on porches and dreaming of our best selves. But it’s more like 8 pm instead of 2 am, and we’ve been discussing schools, politics and school politics… and we have to watch what we’re saying because our smart and inquisitive kids are always listening…