The House Finch

There was a pair of house finches building a small nest outside our window. I’d watch them weave it all together—the female, with her muted brown feathers, working relentlessly on her art. The twigs meticulously placed, one over the next—how they intertwined with one another. The male, with his bright cherry red head and breast, …

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On a Hot Tin Roof

It’s taken me now just about a month to come up with words to express my feelings of our time. I’ve thought about it a lot—nearly endlessly, to be honest. The words I would normally write feel cheap—because it hasn’t really gotten better, certainly not for many of us. And it might not get better …

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About the body

Even though I won’t ever see them again, I still carry them. Inside and outside On the lining of my heart And the edges of my brain Beneath my fingernails Or hanging from an eyelash. They saturate my writing and my words Sloping from an s, or cradled in a y. Sometimes, they are even …

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The right amount of sadness

I spend nights alone, in a hotel room.  Sometimes in a cabin in the mountains. The cabin in the mountains, they’ve done up so that it’s covered in deer prints and wolf prints and bear prints and plaid.  Enamel crockery.  Indoor hanging vines.  Big picture window, so I can stand naked and cry before the …

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Patchwork Girl

An aunt of mine makes quilts, for every generation of the family.  When we are young, she shows us ours—the patches for each sibling.  I remember being worried that my brother, newly born, did not have a square.  Worried he had been forgotten in the weaving all together of a family. I watch the grown …

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Water Weavers

It feels strange, to wake up in a world without them.  A sudden stark realization that they are, simply put, no longer there. And yet, we transition.  This is the work of the mourners—to ease themselves back into life.  The men continue on, their emotions dragging them so deeply that they touch the bottom.  The …

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