portfolio

My daughter found an old journal of mine from my 20s. I remember sketching  and writing in it all the time... And I remember the vain, youthful feeling that I was somehow destined for greatness, and truly immortal in my heart.

PHOTOGRAPHY

CELESTE (with mood board)

There are too many names 

for water. For your hands 

at my throat. 

We’ve been taught 

not to touch the canaries 

lying dead at the bottom 

of the cage. 

In the bathtub, I push faceless 

dolls underwater, listen to them 

suffocate. Oh the trees that grow 

beneath my dress. 

The ghosts of dead children dance 

behind the teacups. Meanwhile, 

the buttons on my blouse 

whisper tales of safety pins. 

Of sewing scissors. 

I never had to be told 

I was worthless without beauty. 

The only thing left in me, 

a rocking chair moving by itself. 

Back and forth. 

Back and forth.

The black-haired girl 

staring down at the floor, 

waiting to lift her head 

and open her mouth. 

Scream.

FIONA (with mood board)

By summer, you’ll be in love 

with death, with boys named Jason. 

Jacob. There’s an old gas pump 

in the yard and a humming bird made 

of tissue paper throbbing in your chest. 

You’ll try to define taste, burnt fruit 

and powdered sugar, your panties rumpled 

and thrown down the well. 

Grief makes the most beautiful ruckus, 

the most beautiful jewelry. My tongue 

yearning to caress different words, 

apples, cicada, the way it caressed 

the cream lining of your ear. 

I’ll wake up at three a.m. every night 

craving mint ice cream, dream 

of my mother’s hands sifting flour. 

Like all the daughters, aching 

to be beautiful inside and out. 

Our eyes longing to see 

but covered by our fathers' hands.

VIDEO POEMS

Some of my first digital art / visual poems: