A Series of Honest Postcards
There is something about watching people pick out spaghetti sauce, and knowing they will cook and eat a meal together, leave dirty dishes in a sink together, that makes me ache.
How Everything Felt
So much of poetry is naming things.
When I Get a Job
When I get a job, I will have a brand-new wardrobe to match my brand-new job. I’m not sure where all these new clothes will come from, but most likely Olivia Pope’s closet.
Adventures in Groceryland
I know which cashier is the fastest, which one is the nicest, and which one packs my reusable grocery bags like her own personal Tetris championship.
The Floppiness of Students
My students rarely say “no,” however. They say “It’s difficult” or “I’m tired,” because from their perspective they are trying.
Light from Light
I didn’t know how to write about a rain jacket on Palm Sunday after forty-four people died in their churches.
To Be Known Again
When you start to recognize people and places, and you start to be recognized, you start to feel home. Re-cognize—from the Latin cognoscere, “to know.” To re-know, or to know again.
Fragments, Detritus, and Half-Scribbled Thoughts
I have so many half-baked ideas rattling around in my brain, interesting websites bookmarked for inspiration, words and sentences hastily scrawled on Post-It Notes.
Instructions for Living an Untimed Life
Mostly, I pace. While I pace, I think about what I’ll make for dinner. I think about the fact that I’ll have time to make dinner because we test again tomorrow so that means no lesson planning.
Crotchpot
I recently discovered the healthy, frugal, “have my shit together” magic known as a crockpot, specifically, a brown-and-tan, floral relic from my parents’ wedding that in a roundabout Oedipal way, led to the traumatization of my penis.
