Sometimes I write toward the hardest Other. She is ungraspable, which is ridiculous. Girl. I run away from myself.

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I’ve been sending and receiving work to/from a friend, and last week I sent her everything that was left from what I had written since moving here. The end of August and the beginning of September were a tired time for me, and I wanted to give my friend everything so that I would have nothing to send. Yesterday I only managed a showing of a revised and expanded poem, but this morning I woke up and wrote for real, for real for real, and it has been really nice. My writing journal alerts me to the fact that I haven’t written anything in it in a month. Self, I forgive you.

If you want to read something else I wrote, here’s a piece for Coldfront’s Song of the Week series.

And here’s a poem I wish I’d made more of a fuss about when it went live in the Nashville Review. It was one of the first things I wrote last fall while the conscious feeling of my book was sprouting, and it sat for a long time in a very different form, and I came back to it at the end and reworked it and reworked it. It was very frustrating. And then one day I came back to it again and sort of let it lead me where it wanted to go all along.

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I say things like “he had a lane” and “years of eligibility” now. It’s incredibly weird to watch a Bama home game without hearing the stadium roar through the window, just before the feed catches up and the touchdown happens on TV, official, and we exchange a sly look because we already knew.

I went to a poetry garden party yesterday. It was really, really, really, really nice to be among poets, especially poets who didn’t judge when I smashed my entire plate of food up against my white shirt.