I was honored to have a poem published in the Fall 2020 edition of The Pitkin Review:


Is it that I come from the moon
that the ocean pulls me in
the sea calls my name
to wash my sins
restore me
give me faith

Where death is beautiful
and collected in the pockets of
small children
and the elderly

Pulling me toward them
pushing me away

yet so close

Published in The Pitkin Review, Fall 2020

How Can I Write

How can I write today?

I write scary stories, but nothing is more frightening than what is happening in our country right at this moment. We thought the COVID virus was scary – but at least with the virus, it attacks us equally. It attacks us equally, but we may not survive it equally.

How can I write today?

To sit down in the safety of my home with the intention of being entertaining, when people outside don’t want entertainment. They want to feel safe. They want to be able to drive in their cars or go for a jog or even yes, even make a mistake, without feeling afraid for their lives.

How can I write today?

I feel helpless. We can protest and riot and scream and cry, we can call officials and beg for justice, we can hold hands or point fingers, we can sit in a silent prayer. But the record just spins around and around, one segment must be scratched, because no matter how beautiful the music is, the skip, the screech, always comes back around. You can repair and you can rebuild, but damage is damage. You can throw it away and buy a new record but sooner or later, that one will be damaged as well. Nothing remains unscathed.

How can I write today?

Writing – my kind of writing – won’t keep anyone safe. It won’t feed the hungry or shelter the homeless. It won’t heal anyone who is hurting. It won’t solve a damn problem. But it is the only tool in my arsenal. It is the only way for me to say: I hear you. I hurt for you. I am sorry the record is broken, I am sorry the beautiful sounds continue to be interrupted with fear, with horror, with sadness.

How can I write today?

How can I not.