Jenny’s first change, like everybody else’s, was expected.

O bobolink. The bobolink is dead / at my door — found leaving my apartment / to school then to work. After some searching, / I guess it’s a bobolink—this lemon- / headed crow, this crumpled parachute cloth.

When I got the phone call the third time Daveonte was shot, I knew it was the last. Still, I held my breath.

Busted furniture. Building materials. Car guts. Then a few feet away, loads more: old clothing, broken toys, soiled diapers.

He’s figured it out. The only way out is to swim, to break water, to surface. It is a long way up, that is how far we have drowned.

We come from the mountains, we have wolf / in our blood, we have pinebarb.

Make it out to my sense of melodrama or maybe just my consistent need for I think it's called attention?

& so I hear / in the beginning I am not / 12 & I hear hips swinging a wide bridge / a chorus swelling in the bass / of my chest & I break

Are there times where we can’t compromise our beliefs because to do so would be to forfeit the core of our beings?

Hers is a country of dead people. All those graves scattered over the hill, the white crosses, the angels with their hands on their chests, the pinwheels that spin over children’s graves.

On the phone, you tell me you were frozen, then brought back to life. The freezing shrunk you and stretched you, and you became ugly.

You will be twenty or twenty-one or twenty-two, no younger than nineteen, no older than twenty-four.

I was looking for Samuel Bernstein’s novel, Lulu, at The Strand, a giant stack of books teetering in the crook of my right arm.

My interdisciplinary art practice evolved from drawings I made while sharing open and public spaces with others.