Category: Poetry

if you do not know how to without emptying it of anxious colors           we are all rotten with choice but photosynthesis

JESUS DOESN’T LOVE THE LITTLE CHILDREN AS MUCH HAS HE USED TO ain’t that just the gotdamn truth? red & yellow? nope, don’t want em’

First, my father with his guitar and mellow tenor like a campfire, after a septennial of babies, bulimia, depression that clung like woodsmoke. Then, my

I was a queen, and you took away my crown; a wife, and you killed my husband; a mother, and you deprived me of my

Terra Incognita        And I’m generating, I’m generating,        oh my babies by the millions where        will you