At the end of poetry, we created a city map with layers all merged: / streets, the water flowing over them through sewers to Sound, topographic / cut corners, radio waves to cellular towers to cables beneath the earth, / a string of words.

Because so much of patriarchal culture writes off any nurturing type of love as femininity or as lesser, it’s easy (and strongly encouraged) to hear “the way men love” as an oxymoron, or as a warning. But there’s also something so sweet about the love that startles through that expectation, that blooms regardless and despite it. The love that forgets to introduce itself.

A puddled reflection cleaves / the largest robin I’ve ever seen. Cleaves, / or doubles. Doubles, or deifies. A worship / of muddy knees. Hinging / in any direction.

On small town community and the lessons Donkey Basketball, Hunter’s Ed, and the Cold Weather Shelter taught me.

2024 is a year of Miyazaki whimsy and Levinasian ontology: of existing through a thousand marvelous, miraculous, devastating encounters.

If the events of most of my friendships were taken out of the context of, well, me, they’d sound like the plots of love stories. My friendship with Mitchi, rather than being an exception, is one of my favorite examples. Case in point: our biology class meet cute.