Published work

The sea does not apologize for what it leaves behind. A branch arrives already carrying its history of storms, split nearly through, its grain opening like a sentence the forest could not finish.

I've done this drive a hundred times— maybe more. North to South, South to North, tracing the spine of Michigan like I was born with a compass in my ribs.

The calendar says spring but the city laughs. I wake to silence thick with snow— not the soft kind, but the kind that falls like an insult.