“Moved by Whitman and the ephemerality of my youth, I decided that I would embrace whatever beauty and grace were available to me and maximize the life that I was, at the moment, so happy with.”

“now it’s mother, / tied with the ropes of rebellion, / gagged by the makeshift cloth / made of the skin of her daughter’s heart—”

“The pages, open and breathing, flutter in the wind, and memories of him wave hello from my desk.

No new movements today, yet no old ones either. I sit. I wave back. I write nothing.”