Saturday, December 24, 2005

Saturday, December 17, 2005

Titleless Piece

Help me title this piece. Any ideas?

Friday, December 16, 2005

Saturday, December 10, 2005


We live in bodies clumsy and disobedient

and we love them even as we punish
with too much or too little
we think we're bigger than they are...

--Ellen Dore Watson, We Live in Bodies

For the complete poem, visit this site.

Friday, December 09, 2005

First Sound

I think of how quiet I must have been insider her,

my larynx a tiny bulb waiting to blossom,
fluid-filled and still, atop my trachea.

I try to imagine it--passing through her,
thrusting from the inside out, catching
my first gasp of air. The throttle of my throat
must have rattled and a high-pitch cry--
or was it a bird-like shrill?--rode the cool
air from my lungs into the acoustic hollow
of my mouth and I released my first sound,
pure and uninhibited, a scream
completing me somehow...

from First Sound

Sunday, December 04, 2005

Love of Opposites

I want to hold him, hold his strength against my chest,

and let my sinuous body smooth
any hard edges like a river polishing stone.

Wednesday, November 30, 2005

What Makes You Grow?

Another panel from
This is the Apartment Where the Silent Girl Lives

Tuesday, November 29, 2005


Panel from mixed media collage:
This is the Apartment Where the Silent Girl Lives

Saturday, November 26, 2005

Birds in Winter

Under the Surface

It's not a question of identity--
the daffodils are blooming already.
It's a question of visibility,
the outward face of petals speading open,
the fluted throat of the stamen relinquishing a voice.

Spring always returns and with it
the bulbs burst into green stalks
enticed from the soil by light
as each spring my depression lifts.

It's not a question of identity, really,
but being asked to mingle at parties,
read my poems to audiences.

It's about the red that pulses through my skin
leaving blotches on my chest and neck.
Little girls point at flowers
and talk of the pretty colors. Perhaps
I'm not ready for this.

Often, I wish to stay the bulb
with hairy, peeling skin in the garden bed
where I am cool and hidden just under the surface
resisting the slight tease of sunlight
calling me out.

(Flesh and Air, poetry manuscript, 2003)

Friday, November 25, 2005

Wednesday, November 23, 2005


I hoard mirrors, sun lamps, shiny stones,
gold-threaded scarves and colored glass
that reverberates light. These things are not enough.
If I could capture light--the kind that warms
my bones--I would rub it into my skin. I would lace
each eye with it. I would place it in my beak
and crush it till it bursts.

from "Scavengers"

For the complete poem, visit
The Licton Springs Review

Tuesday, November 22, 2005

Monday, November 21, 2005

Boys & Girls

I treat them as indoor spiders--
the ones with barely-there bodies,
grayish legs, thin as thread...

Wednesday, November 16, 2005

Synonyms and Mirrors

The art of week two begins...

This week's theme: "boys and girls"
(provided by Walaka)

If you'd like to provide themes for upcoming weeks, please post your ideas.

I hope to create at least one new art piece a week.

Monday, November 14, 2005

Mommy in the Zoo

No need to compare anymore. Don't pretend

to love my Girl Scout craft day and talk
of matching dishes at bridal showers. I know you,
like me, would rather sit in the corner petting the dog.
I have never wanted this: your limbs attached
to strings, bent like sad stalks,
controlled like a puppet as I first noticed at four
when I swiped my hand over your head
checking for strings, when the expression
of false happiness hung from your cheeks
and I asked, "Where is my real mommy?"

from "The Puppet"

Friday, November 11, 2005

Blue Buddha: My Father Turns 60

Discovering the Human

I am ten, watching my father
prick his finger with a lancet.
The blood on the tip of a white
testing strip forms a crown, a bubble,
and balances there like a jewel

developing slowly like a Polaroid,
the red turning dark as rust. I stare
to find the picture in it, wonder what face
might emerge from the stain, the secret
message meant only for me, but he wipes

it clean and a light hue of blue appears.
I witness magic--his blood
turns the color of sky--and then
I feel it: this has nothing to do with me.
My father is human, fragile even, the blood
coursing through him a spectrum of blue.

Thursday, November 10, 2005

Diamond Mine

A frog's mouth is very large--
a diamond mine
with two rows of teeth

flies, moths, beetles
cover a long, sticky tongue
like salt