A mother recovers

To heal, to make whole.
Thus, the blank space
between sounds.

Thus, a rift in tectonic plates.

The hands which beckon or beg
or beat, discovering
a source of light.

A bone knows which way to grow,
underneath all those sinews.

As in a call to prayer,
an invitation to come in
from the world.

As in being bare,
not brave or unbound,
seeking comfort in the small
justices of television plotlines.

The fluids of our lives
come to our rescue.

We press down on the sutures
while children swan dive
into this arena,

and our words become
intentions intercepted

no dividing was ever
done so gracefully


Still Life with Ink


Played around with my bamboo sketch pen and some black ink. Shadows were a bit difficult to create with ink — a watercolor wash would have been more effective for this part, I think.

“Language is a skin”

“Language is a skin.” – Roland Barthes

I think about this and contemplate the folds and pores of my writing. I wonder if it ages through repetition and predictable motifs throughout the years, if the words need scrubbing or stretching. I imagine the skin of sentences skimming the surface of a lake, pressing palm to the wrinkles in what someone else wrote. If our meditations have met through an accidental collision, or an intentional caress. If the words feel a prick or a burn when things break down, if they seek shelter from precipitation. I am certain a poem senses electricity in the air and comes out, on some nights, to invite sudden light into its lines.