The Kind of Beauty that Has Nowhere to Go, a collaborative chapbook that I cowrote with Kathleen Rooney, is now available for purchase from Hyacinth Girl Press. Look how pretty it is!
My friend Katie Caron is responsible for the awesome cover art. It's just $6! You can buy it here.
You can read some sample poems from the chapbook at The Collagist and Hobart. And here's one more:
SOME NOTES ON REMORSE
Beware of people whose motto is “No regrets.” They are violent innocents. Ravaged by love.
I want a point of view that isn’t mine to tell me that what I did wasn’t wrong. And permission to be sorry for the outcome, but not the event.
If you can’t feel remorse, you may be a sociopath. This isn’t all bad. If you feel called to live your life like a dirty free-for-all, you can.
They say it’s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all, but you make me wish I’d never been born.
Guilt is associated with the sound of bells tolling; remorse, the sound of wind through trees.
I would never say I’m sorry in a dream. However, I might set my most regrettable moments in the sky like a starry galaxy, and try to detect a pattern.
To show more remorse, lower your eyes. To show less, fix them up and ahead like an equestrian statue. In general, be blue-eyed and statuesque.
Don’t even try to tell me that swans mate for life. Do swans seem normal to you?
You may be sorry now, but you’ll be even sorrier if you get tear stains all over those satin sheets.
I was working my way up to an apology when a songbird lit upon my shoulder. Something in his tune made cruel jilting sound sweet. If my present self is the sum of my past actions, how can I be sorry?
Remorse smells like tallow soap and agony, but you can never wash it off. It does get fainter over time, like an exceptionally tenacious perfume.
To express remorse you must compose a detailed account of whatever offense you committed. Choose your font wisely; serifs are more emotive.
Thanks for the sympathy, but “buyer’s remorse” doesn’t really compare. Unless what you bought was from Satan.
We name our daughters by the traits we hope they’ll possess; she chose to name hers Rue.
The mental compartment where I store my remorse is the haunted garret in a mansion full of otherwise pleasant rooms.
Some people say there are five languages of apology.
I’m sorry you feel that way.