Waiting for the Bishop

I was angry. I felt hot and righteous. I dressed my hips In a black Short skirt. “Too short,” Said my sister-in-law.  I must speak to the bishop. The Bishop Is my best friend’s father. I put on what I thought would protect me  I wait for the Bishop. While I wait I think Guilt

buzz-cut the poppies

if you only watch one bee at a time        you’ll see me sorting myself as beans you won’t see             winding vine  whole hive you won’t see my mother chewing on her tongue     masticating    mouth            muscle while crocheting leaper’s

Statement of Poetics May 2019

I have been called a writer as long as I can remember. In my mind, if anyone who reads is a reader, then anyone who writes is a writer. I am typing, thus I am writing, thus I am a writer.  When I was 11, I wrote a 5-7-5 haiku which was put in an

la Campagna

Yellow Kayak