She, who is fearless, who walks out of the wilderness feral-shouldered and unbroken.
Your every step can’t help but grind riots of inquiry into the dusty dirt.
Skipping this writers conference made me feel guilty enough to write a poem.
Let others bask in the surety of sunlight. You were born of the moonlight tribe.
Purim Sameach from your friendly neighborhood sacred feminine uprising!
I’m talking directly to the tiny little you who lives inside of you.
When there are so many limits on what you can write about, what can you write about?
A house is not a home, but a bookshelf can be.
Valentine Shmalentine, where're my Devorah-hearts at?
