My poetry is about finding lost things.
If drinking makes you sick, don’t drink.
Find a clean puddle and dip your cup in that; drink the moon on the water.
My grandmother never wanted my grandfather to leave (he was an alcoholic). She had one sister who thought she was prettier than everyone else. Her grave has dead plants on it. And pink marble.
My poetry is about falling across the road as a bloody smear and making a new boundary, a new border.
My poetry is about an imaginary map.
Borders blur and the ink runs when it rains.
Wild roses are my favorite. The ones with all their petals falling off and thorns everywhere.
My poetry is about rotting and returning to the earth.
This post is inspired by Bhanu Kapil’s Blog