There’s a shift I’m beginning to notice. My intention in making my home on one of your mountains was to fall in love in a new way – to see with new eyes. You’ve heard me say I can stare at your trees for hours … Continue reading Dear Arkansas,
On at least one occasion, he donned a bathrobe and appeared in the living room to discourage a date from lingering. He still wears his rayon shirts from the 80s, and I love this. I’ve seen him teary, maybe, a half dozen times, … Continue reading A Few Things I Know About My Dad
We make our home on the mountain Alongside those who make their home Between the branches and the twigs dangling midair Their silky shelters are the shape of impermanence and plenty Vultures are the poets here Hickory nuts write letters on the land I … Continue reading Family Relations
Grateful to Relief Journal for giving this piece a home!
There are days when I feel like I am in a hell of my own making – à la C.S. Lewis. I have every reason to be gloriously happy – dream job, dream husband, living in Montana, plentiful adventures, abundant community – and yet I feel … Continue reading Welcome to the Jungle
Arkansas carves a daily ache Greeted by a fat skink scuffling below a sweetgum A tick burrows into my foot and Constellations bloom across my skin All this unarranged communal intimacy All my friends feel like lovers Even Trombicula autumnalis Maybe it … Continue reading Daily Ache
Let me feel the faith of hermit crabs waiting for the tide’s return. Let me be renewed by a fisherman walking to the surf near sunrise. Each day. Each morning. To the voice chirping, “You are not enough,” I sing in kind, … Continue reading Perdido Key, July 2018
8th Floor of the Wilma. Our windows frame Caras Park–the carousel–a smidgen of the river and Bitterroots. Candied cottonwood resin drifts into our studio. (I once smelled these buds on the Kim Williams Trail with a man I should have never known.) The western valley … Continue reading One Morning in Missoula
Art House America gave a home to my essay about tanning hides and divorce.
Between the gumbo and the beer, we map our funerals on a paper tablecloth at Fisherman’s Corner. Our waitress remembers us from May. “Kids are the ones who scribble on the sheet,” she says, “Aren’t you the one who bit into a pearl?” “Yeah, it’s … Continue reading A Light Lunch