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Perhaps some deaths

Are obliged to be a silent art,

A soul passing through

The shattering of a gossamer windshield

In a slow-motion movie sequence.

We imagine yours like that now.

But I still remember

The fight in your bones

While I held you,

Your feet kicking against the blanket

As your lungs refused their last breath.

But in the waning light,

We did not know

Until I turned on the lamp,

That you were empty.

And so for a time,

As the golden-hour fingers slid along the wallpaper

And to the carpet,

We mistook your silence for hope.

We sat, our collected memories and regrets

Swelling and bobbing about

In the atmosphere of that choked-out room,


That your circle had closed

Or that evaporation could happen so quickly.

And now, our regrets

In quiet cohabitation with our memories,

Make their own circles,

Like cracks in broken glass

That make no sense at all.


Photo credit: Allison, A Farm Girl's Life



'A word after a word after a word is power.' 

-Margaret Atwood

The English language was the only instrument I was ever meant to play in this life. Stories and poems are a way of letting the air into rooms that have long been left unvisited. Whatever may have brought you here today, I hope the journey resonates with you.

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