There’s a legacy of stuff passed through my family, especially on my father’s side.

The hands of the clock strangle my neck. Each hour, a rueful sigh.

say: here     here: hear     still: hours     bud until split     stretches: a body / out

I had thought I was alone. A familiar scent of bleach and black coffee hung suspended in the warm air of my childhood kitchen.

Vignettes of/with the Russian Dictionary of Imperial and Soviet Prison Slang

through my eyelids / yellow wall / of sun was I

Before we leave Virginia, the doctor calls us from his home.

For the sake of this poem as / a citable document, I'll name / just the one breath this time

I’ve been lying for a long time, so let me tell you a story. / We can never go back to who we were, despite the bravado

A partial erasure of King Lear

This is a body / and this body is this thing of terror—how / in this world every / woman is a survivor and every…

How do we get back to the root of things — how can we pull up the weeds in our work to make space for new growth?

In the beginning, what was my name?