I try to write serious poetry, poetry that resonates and captivates and fascinates and radiates. Sometimes I accomplish something that seems like it might maybe perhaps succeed at doing that. But there’s another type of poem that seems more common in my repertoire.

1 In first grade, I noticed a small square of itchy redness on the inside of my left foot. There were little bumps amid the red patch. I imagined them as tiny volcanoes sprouting from the desert landscape of my skin. I scratched. In time, the rash grew bigger and showed up on my right foot, too.

It’s been a while since I’ve done an “About Me” post, so here is one about significant doors in my life. 1 My childhood bedroom door was at the end of the hallway, on the right side, but angled in just slightly so that, if my bed was against the wall, I could look out my door and down the hallway, through the living room, and into th…

Trigger warning: talk of death. At section 16, I tell my own story of child loss.

I’ve decided not to simply write a summary of my life to date, highlighting certain threads and events. Instead, I’m taking it slow. From time to time, I will write other “About Me” posts, each with its own flavor. Instead of a continuous story, I will share some snapshots, what Patricia Hampl suggests we call “vignettes,” the “unsorted heap of images w…