In the Voice of My Poetry

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.

I was born alone.

Wild roses are my favorite.

My poetry is about rotting and returning to the earth.

*

This post is inspired by Bhanu Kapil’s Blog

Photo by Felipe Santana on Unsplash

Hotel Magic

pelvic bone

demolition

painkiller hotel

and hunger

cold coffee the

shattered lover

intoxicated

vertebrae

tangled

in the

Delta

transformation

night

sky-

dive

THE MAJESTIC HOTEL

BURNED FOR NEARLY

48 HOURS

Big Dipper

spiraling

catastrophe

*

Found poem. Source: The New York Times, April 2014.

This poem was first published on my old blog Chewing Wormwood and then republished in my collection Lupercalia. (I can’t believe I remembered my old blog’s name!)

Photo by Ph B on Unsplash

Writing Advice #15

ALWAYS DOUBLE CHECK YOURSELF

This one is going to be short and sweet.

When you submit your work to a magazine and they ask you to write a cover letter…

DON’T

FORGET

TO

ADDRESS IT TO SOMEONE!

Don’t say “Dear editor”

or “To whom it may concern”

Go to the magazine’s website, find their masthead and PICK OUT A NAME.

And for the love of god don’t start your cover letter with “Dear, ____________”

and then forget to fill in the blank.

It makes you look like a fucking moron.

*

Note: I just did that. I wrote “dear” and forgot to plug in someone’s actual name before I hit the submit button. Don’t be like me.

Photo by Cata on Unsplash

She Goes Away

Mothers who love their children take them along.—Maxine Hong Kingston, Woman Warrior

When my mother goes away

she visits men in cages;

she has always known

the words:

revolutionary,

dissident,

are synonymous depending

on who locks the gate.

When my mother goes away

she takes me with her

sometimes and we walk

along the causeway,

looking for gates.

*

This poem was first published in my collection Lupercalia.

Photo by Matias Jacobi on Unsplash