“William Morris, Wrapped in Brown Paper” and “For in Marriage” are from a lectio divina of Mrs. Dalloway, my second favorite book ever. I hadn’t read Mrs. Dalloway in years, as…
I OEDIPUS on Fridays strip my anger off like mummy-wrap / and pitch it at the night, our dusty orchid wallpaper where / shadows are…
There’s something so compelling and curious and impossible—trying to get inside one’s own mind, to think around and about one’s own thinking. We donated my father’s…
I’m far from home, / and you’ve long since receded / into shadow
My mother, the poet, Rosemary Cappello, believed in the power of literary journals, and of poetry, to change the world. Of course she was a…
Ever since my father handed Neruda’s Isla Negra, he has been one of my favorite poets. This used to be a much longer poem, then…
The poem is not ekphrastic in nature. Instead, I wondered what it’d be like to call a poem after a made-up work of art, to…
The desert is deeper than I thought, deeper than thought, that trickster, bait- and-switcher, rabbit snare.
Lately I’ve been feverish, prickly hot and sleepless. None of this work feels like
The birds are talking loudly about the need for reparations. / They say it’s a time whenever their feet touch the ground.