Or maybe it’s me / who kneels, presses / my face to the green / cobbled floor of last era’s / ocean, the present’s / veins…

You have two lungs, but / when one collapses the other / cannot be pulled open…

At the end of poetry, we created a city map with layers all merged: / streets, the water flowing over them through sewers to Sound, topographic / cut corners, radio waves to cellular towers to cables beneath the earth, / a string of words.

Paths form memory past memory, / time immemorial yet here material: a living tapestry draped / to the mantle from the sky. And through this organ, breathing: // a cut, a slice, a wound. Severing the spawning streams, the falcon’s / fields and beaver ponds—even the cliffs—a highway drives / into the woods.

That moment always stands out to me as when I first realized that fighting my fatness was the thing keeping me from power, not being fat. Being “obese” wasn’t causing my health issues or preventing me from doing what I loved: it was doctors refusing to listen to me and extreme dieting that was hurting my body. 

Because so much of patriarchal culture writes off any nurturing type of love as femininity or as lesser, it’s easy (and strongly encouraged) to hear “the way men love” as an oxymoron, or as a warning. But there’s also something so sweet about the love that startles through that expectation, that blooms regardless and despite it. The love that forgets to introduce itself.

Whenever I see a small aircraft descend past my apartment, with drooping lights against a dark sky and darker ridgeline, I think of a poem by Ada Limón, called “Accident Report in the Tall, Tall Weeds.” There’s a section that reminds me so much of my dad…

A puddled reflection cleaves / the largest robin I’ve ever seen. Cleaves, / or doubles. Doubles, or deifies. A worship / of muddy knees. Hinging / in any direction.

According to the witch-prophet in the Goodwill, I have a kind gaze, one that renders what it touches beautiful. Like superhero laser eyes, but with art…I believe, in that way, that we all, on some level, are superheroes. Or witches, or prophets, or whatever. That is to say, I believe in magic. That there’s magic in the world. That we, as experiencers and as meaning makers, are magic.

So nose to the ground, you piggy reporters / to snuff out stories like truffles, gobbling / the T from your “LGB” in Stonewall and Civil Rights / biographies. Mutiny your motley crew. Betray / Jill Hawkins, though she was like a son to you.

On small town community and the lessons Donkey Basketball, Hunter’s Ed, and the Cold Weather Shelter taught me.

2024 is a year of Miyazaki whimsy and Levinasian ontology: of existing through a thousand marvelous, miraculous, devastating encounters.

I think “Maybe I should give Them a call.” / We were close once, me and God—childhood / best friends. And, as those do, when we grew up, / we grew away.

There’s this perception that trans people have to leave their small towns to reinvent themselves, but that’s not always true.

“I love you. I’m glad I exist”

Reflections on one year of HRT and making a homeplace of my body.

With an excess of aimless love, in 2021 I threw myself even deeper into the medias of queer romance

But when I remember this silly—and caring—moment years later, I realize we’re often taught that friendships aren’t allowed to have any moments that could be interpreted as romantic. In turn, we’re robbed of a million ways to love our friends.

When I say I dislike kissing, that's not the entire truth. It's a (soft) lie, because there hasn't been a single time that I've held a purple tulip without lowering my lips to brush against the cool petals.

If the events of most of my friendships were taken out of the context of, well, me, they’d sound like the plots of love stories. My friendship with Mitchi, rather than being an exception, is one of my favorite examples. Case in point: our biology class meet cute.