​Waiting for my mug of lemon ginger tea to cool, I crawl into bed with 3 different books — Donna Tart’s The Goldfinch, Rebecca Solnit’s...

​Easter is a day of emergence and resurrection. While quarantine is keeping us from physically emerging, I think we can find both of...

​Why I write Why you tie a balloon to a string — To stay. To be. To hold onto something: A string of words, taut with grammar’s gravity;...

​CoronaVirus is a disaster unfolding fast: on our screens if we’re lucky, before our eyes if we wait long enough, and eventually in our...

​“Is there too much Kahlua?” It struck her as a strange question. She, for one, didn’t know a way to remove an ingredient from peaks of...

Writing has felt like searching more than saying lately; morning pages, like probing for a light-switch, instead of illuminating with the...

When I was young, I’d take a small white ceramic bowl from the cupboard, intended for our pet rats, and start pulling out what...

​The corner of Michelle Obama’s Becoming pokes out of my charcoal suede book-bag, collapsed on the wooden bench of a downtown cafe. It’s...

The speed at which things pass is robbery. Poems flash like strobes of light below trees and then are gone. For instance, on my way to...

Be quick with the details. They run fast like small children. Seize them by the sleeve, hook their hood, grip a hand. Grab hold of what...