The story is the same always: one of you leaves first & you both know who it’s going to be.

The music jumps, cuts, flourishes in a way I don’t attempt to map out, recognizing the particular logic of feel.

Cadenza seizes our attention, rockets us skyward like childhood swings. We grip its chains and fly.

Cities are places of jazz—where it was born, where it has changed, and where it thrives.

The Duty of a Sun

For as long as I’ve known, my hipbone has made music.

Music, Personal EssayGuestMarch 22, 2018

On Reaching Applesauce

When they told me he was going, I thought, I will never be loved like this again, and I am only twenty-two.

The tongue is powerful—it is both body & voice, past & future, self & monster.

All the World Enthroned in Our Throats

My mother’s mother’s language is the music of canefields.

Music, Personal EssayGuestFebruary 11, 2018

I wanted to plant a garden with her, but her winter was my spring & none of the days moved slowly enough to catch.

My best mistakes could hear me for what I was. Through a stereo, over a headrest, I was so seen, so possible.