poetry collection 25 pp

Description of Glassblower’s Tale Chapbook

Burial Grounds


In a valley a woman unearths a 40,000 year old bead.

She palpates the pitted surface, squinting through its tiny hole.

The world before her—blue, green, gold. Beneath her feet,

the compact, gritty matter upon which an ancient people gathered.

Long ago, in the legendless universe before this bead,

danger was more magnificent than art.

She pauses, looks toward the horizon, then squats to search for

the tool that formed the opening.


Sometimes she finds a leg bone,

sometimes part of a pelvis,

sometimes an entire torso,

every rib preserved.

The draw to ruin is strong in her.

She loves parts—stories.

She unearths a skull, holds it high.

Within her, breath expands and the cavities

of the eyes fill.


Multitudes stream across borders.

Through an open window, ripples of anger are like the skin of an onion—

easy to ignore, hardly worth the trouble of crushing.

She whispers in my ear— Earth is the only anchor.

Halfway around the globe, a storm, masturbating to its own incantation,

pulls into it wood, stone, steel,

skin, bone, hair.