Macchiato
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Reading the Poems of Someone Who Has Died
My friend died in February, which is the right month for the kind of death that comes slowly and then all at once. She was forty-eight. She...
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Pull up a stool and let the words pour out. Short, punchy, or sprawling — all poetry is welcome here.
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Flat White
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The Language She Spoke
My grandmother spoke a language I never learned. This was, for many years, a fact I noted without particularly examining — one of those biog...
Latte
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On Reading Slowly
I read a poem today that I have read many times before. I read it slowly, which is the only way to read a poem, and even so I moved through...
Cold Brew
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On the Poetics of Rain
It is raining as I write this, which feels like a form of permission. Rain is one of the few weather conditions that still carries, in the c...
Espresso
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Portrait of a Stranger
I caught my reflection in a shop window this afternoon and did not recognise the man looking back. Not for three full seconds. He seemed old...
Affogato
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Self-Portrait as a Series of Small Rooms
Room one: Age seven. A kitchen in a house that smelled of woodsmoke and something sweet I could never identify. My mother at the table with...
Espresso
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The Last Light on Briar Street
She left the key under the mat, the way she always had. The door still knew her — creaked twice, then settled into silence. The kitchen smel...