In 2016, I look back on the photos I see. The photos of me, of 2014, of footloose and fancy free. Photos of me.

But it’s hard to believe what I see

a photo of me

When all I can see is a girl dressed in women’s clothing.

A caricature of a make-over,
a dress that clings to all the right(wrong) places

What I thought were the right places.

What a feeling. To look back and know that everything that you thought was right was more than wrong,
what you thought was a dream
was the worst possible nightmare,

of a girl of 21.
is a girl of soft-spoken 11.

A sheep in wolf’s clothing.

And you call me a woman.


Untitled Anger

I don’t want to write(think) about any of the things my fingers want to write about.



If you are happy, I am angry.


Do you know what anger is?

I haven’t seen it cross your eyes.

I haven’t heard its twang in your heartstrings.

“Must be nice,
Must be nice,
Must be nice…”

I am a Songbird

I have the feeling with words.

Like they’re at the tip of my fingertips.

My tongue remains silent.

But my fingers could tell stories,
sagas, and sing to you,
sing with a silent voice.

I sing in Arial font.

How easily a word drips off my fingernails.

How difficult a word resonates from my voice.

Written words are silken,
satin, and laced.

Spoken words are rusted,
grinding, and gagging.

After four years,
How am I able to me be
and sing silently?

Myself and The Elements

I. Smaller

When I am outside
I am smaller.
Hip resting against a tree
I am rawer.
When the water floods my feet
I am meaningfully insignificant
I am not sure if it is my breath
or the breeze
but my skin is cooled
by the sun
and cleansed
by the mud
and the river is my blood
only strengthened by the flood
And it is here
that I mean the least
and my heart
can make the most
of the curious and humbling
deathly and defying
bigness of the outside.
When I am outside
I am calmer
I am stronger
I am smaller.


II. Blue Fire

A fire
burns orange and bold,
brightness to blind,
with flames that stretch high
Reaching out
Shouting out
Spitting out heat
and singeing
any hair on a head it will turn.

A fire
burns low and blue.
A silent,
steady simmer
that turns no heads
seeks not to singe.

Said the orange fire to the blue,
“What fire are you
if you don’t burn and blaze?”

But the blue fire sang silently
For in itself it knew
the hottest of fire is blue.


III. July’s Air

July’s air
makes me sweat.
Air wetter than water
heavy as the suffocation
of a burlap bag.
I don’t walk outside.
I walk through outside
if the very thing I need to live
if the very thing to
kill me.
Asphyxiate and smother

Lackluster air of July.

Can I part you
like the red sea?
Can I brush the pieces off?
There’s air
stuck to the back of my neck,
I think it’s in my hair
Am I outside?
Or is outside on me?

I long for January’s air.
A sharp,
spearmint inhalation,
A frosty injection,
January’s air
gives a tingle to your spine.

But it’s the dog days of summer.
And I’m stuck
in this


IV. Tears of a Hurricane

I twist through existence
Slip between grasps
My soul is the color of glass,
pouring, running,
and like water,
though less of a sprinkle,
less singing in the rain,
and more the presence and destruction
of a torrent,
Making myself known
and felt
but never forever.
I flood with the force of God
but evaporate before the eyes of men
leaving a trace,
a tear,
a dampness in the soil
For the strength and fury of a hurricane
is never a victimless crime.

The Beauty of Letting Go

To decipher the art
of letting go of an egg in my palm
was to decipher the art of love.
Any tighter and it will submit
into a thousand tiny breaches
crumbling, dissolving,
into a yolk not ready for light.

Should I release my cramping fingers,
should it tumble over my smoothed palm,
then it will drip and ebb
into cracks of linoleum,
Will I not have to clean a mess
of my own making either way?

But I didn’t ask to hold this egg.
And so I release it into a carton
and simply decipher the beauty
of letting go.


I found home in a fjord.
Fell in love with the narrow,
effortless language of Norsk.
Pursed my lips over ø
and whispered through kj.
home became hjemme.
hjemme became hanes then våres
og left as hennes.
Hennes hjerte.
Æ vett hjemme is where
the hjerte bli men

Hvordan kan en person
bli helbredet uten hjem?

Distorted, Disfigured.

He asked her what was wrong.

And she said she didn’t know. She didn’t
understand the way
her body was clenched even when relaxing,
and she thought that other people are too
oblivious, and male privilege lines the walls
and weaves through conversation she was
silent of, and her throat felt dry and her
thoughts often raced and she wasn’t
sure why this animosity licked at her
with a split tongue, sending her down lower,
where she’s already perceived and once
again she’s the bitch, the bad one,
the bitter,
and now it’s her tongue that hisses, and
poisons, and it’s her body that constricts
and strangles
but none of it is seen
because she’s poisoning, constricting, and strangling
and soon she’ll be contorted,
distorted, disfigured and writhing
in a pool of her own poison
past the people she pushed
and rebuked, reprimanded.

and when he asks,
she’ll never know why.