Behind a Name, Into a Poem [Q&A]

The way a name lingers in the snow when traced by hand. The way angels are made in snow, all body down, arms moving from side to ear to side to ear— a whisper, a pause; the slight, melting hesitation– The pause in the hand as it moves over a name carved in black granite. The “Chuck, Chuck, Chuck,” of great-tailed grackles at southern coastal marshes, or the way magpies repeat, “Meg, Meg, Meg”–

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A Life of Writing [Q&A]

Poetry filled the pages as if it was my first tongue or a primitive utterance that just came out when my censors were “off.” The early me was quantity over quality and that mountain of poems was angsty and terrible, of course. But you could say the form “grew” up with me, and poetry was ever present. Like a shadow. Training wheels. A body cast. The cocoon from which I would eventually emerge.

Thread of Thought [Creative Non-Fiction]

Listen to the voice speaking solely, signaling itself as unique, de-encapsulating itself from the magma of interwoven thoughts. The only difference between the voice and the magma is this peculiar persistency, this wish for continuity. Not yet continuity. Just an inclination, a bias, as for dust tending to become lint—assemblages of matter, inconsistent and tiny, wanting to stick together if precariously. Listen to the voice and its pretense of lead-taking, its thirst for authority. Authorship as a claim to responsibility. Claim to personality. Right to vote, though no right of birth can be proved yet. No citizenship. Listen to the arrogance of the voice in spite of its chronic weakness—it will be erased, dissipated, if I simply turn the other way. Listen well because the voice is thin, because lint is volatile.