from ARTIST STATEMENTS:
You can lead a poem to water, but you can’t make it drink. Or more, you can’t make it sink. The throat clogs with dead leaves and branch rot, but something beats beneath the detritus. I’ve killed more poems than I’ve let survive, but the hive buzzes with a thousand wingless monsters. Tiny mongrels missing a leg, an eye. They scarce know their own dried husks. The hush of bodies humming together. How we were wrong when we thought their brokenness contained them. Rattled its way into their tiny exoskeletons and squeezed out the air. Days later, we’d find them fluttering, alive, against the windows. Fused together, many-limbed, and blind.