When I was a child with a just-dead dad,
I sat at the kitchen table after my mother
and brother had gone to bed. I was afraid
In the sea near Galway a woman howls at the full moon. She howls with her mouth full of salt. Salt and blood and something deeper than language. Last week her father died. He died in a lawn chair under the moon on the other side of the world. Not a full moon but a waxing…
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My mother was a pretty girl with a hot temper. Her classmates nicknamed her the Korean Doris Day. They didn’t know behind that perky nose and heart-shaped face was an open palm on a hair trigger. A black-and-white photo of her trendy bob cut and fresh complexion reveal youth in bloom. Her coy, closed-lip smile gives the impression someone told her a joke and she’s holding in a laugh.
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My drawings are based on original text from notebooks I have kept over the years. I am interested in exploring the limitations and elegance of formal language. The words are often altered beyond legibility, but the visual rhythms we associate with reading and understanding what is written…
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We sit in the back of a black car. New mouth. Her first time sucking the face of “another woman.” She can’t feel my gender. We don’t know each other long enough or well enough and I can’t simplify queer theory fast enough. There isn’t time…
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I live in the same house where we lived together for sixteen years, although I’ve changed most of the furniture. He didn’t take his things, so I stuffed them into garbage bags and put them on his porch until my daughter told me that he was tossing them straight into the dumpster…
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