The anatomy of grieving I travel down my oesophagus, the rigged stair to a moist world under. I sneak through the epiglottis, unnoticed, pass the larynx, wordless and red as a vulva. Adam’s apple unbitten – my pharynx is no sinner. I descend down passing the thymus, space between breasts where lovers like to hide,Continue reading “epiglottis is the door”
"May my body be for what it was intended: an expression of Your grace. And what small ways I make with this poetry – what songs and friendships I form, what migrations and ripples I disturb in the world – may they have something of Your signature on them"
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