boat house love


blue glass

blue china

blue sky

blue sea

a long weekend for lobster

and a fluffy dublin tea

late night whisky scrabble

leaks into breakfast babble

sticky griddle we will dabble

breakfast for dinner, dialogue for dessert

warm wood surrounds us

empty space confounds us

still this young love abounds us

drowns us, pouring over every day


nutella lips

ginger sips

goosey quips

my person sticks

to yours like beans 

bean legs

soda breads

looking out

where the ocean ends

tiny hands

frozen sands

perfectly aimless

weekend plans.



Last night, driving toward the last sunset of summer layoff, I was stumbling in the description of my own confusing feelings on returning to the studio, and M said something  rather poetic.

“It’s like you’re about to jump into a cold lake.  You have been standing on the edge for so long, counting down, 3…2…1…but it’s not time.  3…2…no!  3…2…

Once you jump in, you will feel so good.  Refreshed, energetic, in your element.  Comfortable, even.  You just need to make that first splash.”

His flawless analogy revealed more than the fact that I had obviously bloated his ears full of my bipolar, excited laments on the subject far too many times, but also that he was listening.  I mean, really listening.  The kind that defines passivity with its fervent opposition.  Listening with an attentive purpose, wheels turning, taking in every word and searching his own glossary of Kirsten closeness to dissect the true meaning in each one.

This morning I am grateful for the chance to dive in, and for the support of someone who knows just when to let go of my hand and whisper “Jump.”



collage by Merve Özaslan.

tracing our tracks


with the chill of an april night in may,

we march out again to float above the river.

365 days dustier, our train tracks seem only to have magnified in magic…


so too has my aversion to such height-induced adrenaline,

but now we are we, and together we walk free.

clutching your expert hands I tread since-vanquished coals with care as if they still burned.

I follow your flippers, tracing your tracks and placing each velvet slipper on the rail behind yours.

someone else’s mother’s leather floats across the divide and I trail…


it seems 12 months time has erased my subtle cool completely, and I freeze.


please wake my feet that they may flee in tidy take off,

incite my knees that they may ensure a steady landing,

and oh please, leave my racing mind at peace that it may not tempt curious eyes to seek the water below.

a shaky leap and at last I meet you for the first and five hundredth time…


we turn to face           a searing sky.

burning hearts pressed together,

now above the train tracks

over the river

we fly.


5.24.16. written on a cool tuesday morning, dreaming of the past weekend…week…year…and all of the painted skies to come.

the space between

This post was inspired by Viktor Plotnikov’s choreography, Arvo Pärt’s brilliant composition (I recommend clicking here to listen along while you read), and the enigma of the comatose.


listless in every sense,
a state of chronic quiescence.
explicitly numb and seemingly unaware of all circumstance,
dormancy has never existed so overtly.


deafened by cryptic disfunction,
inanimated without consent,
involuntarily absent from existence,
this paralysis solicits no invitation.


an aleatory boarding onto
a train with no destination,
no schedule, and no track,
only its passengers are bound.


the persistent innominate “they” say
ignorance is bliss, but
only those who constantly travel
without ever advancing know:
enlightenment exhales elation.


so rhythm compensates,
and euphoria hangs in the balance, where
our passengers gently swing,
sweeping in the space between.


poetry by me, photo by Madeline Issa.