What this will be.

The poet William Stafford was once asked when he became a poet. He said he didn’t; everyone else just stopped.

I think about that a lot. I’m a psychiatric nurse and a nursing instructor. I worked the COVID ICU at NYU Langone during the first wave and managed pediatric psych units where kids arrived in crisis and left, if they were lucky, slightly more held than before. I’ve practiced Buddhism for seventeen years. Somewhere along the way I started writing down what I saw: not clinical notes, but the other thing. The texture of it. What a body sounds like when it’s trying to stay alive. What silence means in a room where someone has just told you the worst thing that ever happened to them.

That writing has found its way into Massachusetts Review, JAMA, Fourth Genre, Heavy Feather Review, and other places I’m grateful for. I’m working on poetry collections and a book of essays. This is where I’ll share news about that work. Eventually, maybe, some of the thinking that doesn’t fit neatly into a poem or a journal submission.

No schedule. No content strategy. Just a door left open.