This poetry collection is MAGIC made from incantations in space and spells in stars. To read “What Ghosts Do” or “Blood Eclipse” or “Pillow Mime” is to touch the vapor-cloud of a wraith as its waist shifts through your finger tips. It’s to press your lips upon phases of a moon, on shimmers of sun dust.

These poems will leave you celestial. You will ache to become self-actualization. You will find its imagery as inspiration, as living, beyond the drag of ordinary experience.

This poet writes about the high of galaxies, swirling in milk-stars. But in those stars are cellular motions of her being. They are her meanings and loves and anxieties, all which are too broad to be contained, but are still stuck inside her body, in the exhaustion of memories.

Her poems know interconnection on one hand, isolation on the other.

They are her failures, successes. They are binary: aloneness in fusion.

“I feel the diamond cool gush of carbon night and it reminds me

I’m alone…”

“I sing the vacuum of dead space:

my silence gorgeous.”

These pieces hold, in no particular order: an awe of gray skies, secrets of cosmic nature, blossoms, 66 inches of magic, a romance of what cannot be said, being in the moment of pressing and geographical skins, true flight, “firestruck pelvis and ghost hips,” to be all dove or all pigeon. Yes.


  • Japanese stab binding in hand waxed thread

  • cover of a yellow pink horizon,

  • watercolor paintings of a moon in different phases,

  • blue vellum paper that melts over its poems, shifting them in ghostly translucence (Trivia question: Were those blue pages in reference to: “When I grant anxiety a color, it won’t be blue–” and does this color bring peace?)

  • expansive white space

  • receipt on front cover given for three purple elephants, a connection to home

  • all books should be dedicated to cats, especially to Babe, Luella, and Faustus


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