The poems in this collection examine what happens when we are cracked open by love, loss and the passage of time
“Thirst,” West Trade Review, Spring 2021, Volume 21
“What She Doesn’t Know,” The Wax Paper, Volume Three, Issue 11
“Q&A,” Evening Street Review, Mid-Spring 2021, No. 29
“They May Be Poppies,” El Portal Literary Journal, Fall 2020, Volume 78, No. 2
“Coda,” Drunk Monkeys, December 2017, Vol. 2, No. 12
“1305 Elm Street,” Gemini Magazine, March 2016
"Stone", Persimmon Tree, Summer 2017
This poem was the genesis for the poems in Geodes.
There’s complexity in stone.
Bird, fern, bark, bone
compress and carbonize to shadow.
So much of what we love
stiffens. My mother
hunted geodes in Iowa fields,
delighted in the prize inside—amethysts
deep as purple plums, agate
My husband free-climbed cliffs,
clung to stone the way
to skin a lover cleaves.
I wear my mother’s agate ring,
sit beside my husband’s grave,
pink granite warm to touch,
gold flecked face of Annapurna
at sunset. In summer
I eat peaches, claret
cherries, bruised plums,
strip sweetness from stone
hearts, seed and cyanide