Poetry

Poetry begins in fragments—an image, a memory, a line that follows me home.

Some poems arrive nearly whole. Others take shape slowly, one line at a time, until they find their form.

These are the things I couldn’t leave unwritten.

Selected Poems

Somewhere between
the dark letting go
and the first light
touching the earth,

No fear remained.
Only calm.
The quiet knowing
that we were held.

A smile
that makes my heart hesitate.

Two souls
carrying old wounds.

If my hands were empty—
who would knock?

I learned to arrive alone,
explaining an absence
as if it were my own.

Ten years
folded into boxes.

I found the place
where conflict becomes
a doorway.

I confused keeping the peace
with having peace.

not the worst thing.
Only the last.

No glance
to gauge the room.

The grip is gone—
not released,
not loosened—
gone.

What once held her
now takes.

A little less of me,

I learned,

might make me more.