If grief were a physical thing, would that explain why it always feels so real? Would it be cold, like a biting wind? The worst part isn’t the chill; it’s the worrying whether all of you is going to survive Would it be a liquid, like water? Lulls you into complacency, but…

Not all those who wander are lost Not all those who struggle are found Sometimes when you’re happy you grieve Sometimes you’re still happy, but you still grieve When people are still still around. Sometimes when you look down the line And the fear that you find is your own But the…

Gloria Atanmo shared this wonderful post on Facebook, titled “Is it rude to call us Black?” and it stirred some feelings in me. As much as I appreciated and identified with the article, it also described a perspective and an experience that only felt… half-familiar. Intersectionality works in mysterious ways…

Lovers we are, of words Our syllables trip off the tongue With messages, we sow delight Until we bid adieu, goodnight And dream of the words left unsung. Lovers we are, of touch To skin and to hearts never heard One brush can leave the faintest mark That keeps us thinking after dark Devotion can feel so absurd. Lovers we are, of sound Like judgments that follow from rules From axioms we both conclude Despite the risk, it might be shrewd To giggle remotely, like fools.

I grew up in Ohio, in a two-story house that stood on a long, long, gradual hill, and that backed up against a small forest. I remember that hill icing over one winter, and watching from a window as a taxi cab slid slowly — so slowly… gracefully even —…