I wish you could see the Plumeria flowers here. They're also called Frangipani, which I like more, maybe because it seems the least...

​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...