I was raised on little light

A letter from the place where the wild things are

I’ve got seven; how many did you get?

Maybe white men are a disease?

What do you mean, that’s not a rabbit?

This one’s for you.

Boundaries are investments in our relationships.

A poem about the things we left at sea.

A sonnet about the people we cast to play our demons.

One does not discover the absurd without being tempted to write a manual of happiness.

You’ve never even seen the real world.

Recovery isn’t a straight line.

Mostly? “Don’t.”

It’s more than just quarantine.

A family’s fatal flaw

It’s hard to hate your mom.

This sonnet is inspired by a dream I had a long time ago.