My mother taught me to drink it by the gallon, a flood of dirty brown the best accompaniment to tiredness boredom grief conversation the passage of time. In case of shock, add sugar. While some warm the pot and measure the leaves, I dunk bags bought by the hundred in a box of … More Tea
‘There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at your typewriter and bleed.’ Ernest Hemingway. I try for blood but sometimes I can’t find the vein. Or I nick something and ooze green, as though I am descended of insect-kind and not a person at all. Some days writing is more … More Dear Mr Hemingway
Some days everything I touch, I drop onto a floor that’s not been mopped in weeks. The words that yesterday flowed free today are stopped. And I want to stop too, myself, and sleep. This poem is the crust, these words I utter The last scraping from the jar of peanut butter. I see them … More Butter side down days
Even when you cry, there is a rhythm You pause to take a breath. You bellow. Rumi says We have fallen into the place Where everything is music. I know this song: A quick crescendo, a steep drop into sleep. I rock you to the beating of your heart And wait.