Poet in Space

If you write you can forge / A substance that is other than the woman of substance / You are. If you do it to such a point you can find / Yourself declining substance altogether. It happens. It is a danger.” ~Ariana Reines


Being a poet means being an organism that already exists at the edges. By poet I mean woman. Either way, I’m embarrassed most of the time. I’m not invested in a career. I’m not invested in making money through something I love. I’m just trying hard to like myself more and to be of more use in the world, but there’s no money and little money in these things, respectively.

Does teaching (by which I mostly mean, adjuncting) count as being a professional poet? As with motherhood: you give your small body over to something else and, in exchange for your own silencing, achieve some sort of validation. Women are validated quietly, desperately, relegated to a world of making things in recognizable, nameable forms. Flattened by the pavement of existence, two feet on a ground that suggests over time how two-dimensional you really might be. Thoreau said men lead lives of quiet desperation but even still they get to be assertive about it you know? Pioneers with muscles.




As a poet in space, I write toward the things I read; and the poems I read are an attempt to make up (for) some things, to hold sustained, critical inquiries in creative spaces, without fear of reaching the end before an answer has been obtained. Because the poem knows to live for the questions and not the answers. The poem got that line from Rilke. Sometimes, a poem can even switch between registers partway through, verging toward and away from a certain tone or sentiment. Poems of this sort model confusion—not confusion, but a lack of intelligibility (see Butler). But it’s only poetry and most poems are already Confusing so it’s fine. Meanwhile, I—in my body, at work, around my neighborhood—cannot afford to be confusing in that same way. So I tend to stick to a familiar register: quiet.

Can you be at the very edges of your selfhood while writing from the center of yourself? Can writing be a dangerous edge that the body refuses? Or is my writing the edge with which I touch things, a fingertip?




Looking at women –> creating women. I’m talking about women looking toward each other, over and beyond their wage gaps and thigh gaps, the valleys that keep us competing.

Despite such distance, I am still engulfed by the feeling that I cannot take up too much space. Perhaps even poems can take up too much space. In the space of poemworld. Perhaps writing—whether it be messy or solemn or experience-informed or “confessional”—can approach words and ideas through composure and seriousness and control so as to avoid seeming neurotic or hysterical or female in an expected way. (I don’t want to be expected but I’d very much like to be needed.) What if I am hysterical and crazy and emotional, and then I write a poem? What if I am hysterical in the poemworld only? What if I pretend to be? What if I say make-believe and you say fact?

Sometimes all it takes is a finger pointing at you, someone telling you to not get so upset; one half of a conversation can mistakenly suggest what’s taking place on the other end, whether the receiver is a telephone or a brick wall. Whether you’re being heard or categorized.

“She’s a train wreck,” I heard one man say to another, a hundred times in a row.




Imitation of hysterics –> being unwell. Women don’t benefit from the usual distance of fiction when it comes to our wellbeing. Women are just so good at trying things on. Sometimes we don’t even need to be the ones doing the dressing: we simply wake up one day and find ourselves outfitted.


Can you choose to put your body near unwellness without succumbing to its gravitational force?

Can you write through mental illness without committing yourself to its singular public trajectory?

Can you joke about gender tropes in a way that doesn’t accidentally reinforce their existence?


Can you reinforce your own existence, seriously?

Can you be emotional without being vulnerable?

Can a woman write a poem that doesn’t come from her heart?

Can a woman have guts?

Can a woman spill her guts?

Can a woman shit her pants?

Can a woman plant her bones?

Can a woman pet her plants?

Can a woman love too many organisms?

Can a woman have too many orgasms?

Can a woman enough or too much anything, at all? It is a very delicate and difficult process, the one in which you fall outside the bounds set up before you, dismissing the pull you once believed was the only way to stay grounded.

“She’s all over the place.” Where else could she be?




When the female body creates differently, how does this interrupt what is expected of her personhood? Her presentation? Her performances? Or create new possibilities in what she may one day expect from herself—what could even, in some bright distant future, be expected of her? Or not. And what about the act of creating to the point of unrecognition? To find yourself getting bigger, changing shape, untethered by organ or name; to will yourself toward a new image, a multiplicity of determination; your brain and your body parts shifting beyond the purview of reproduction. “It happens.” Of course it’s dangerous. It barely has a name. That ever-widening space between body and ground. Undiagnosable.

The Responsibility of Knowing

i feel better when i know about things. often, i want to understand things more upon knowing about them. i find myself struggling in the face of so many circumstances, contradictions, feelings & encounters that don’t make sense to me, for the purposes of my wanting to know. my brain unfolds and refolds itself, like a map.

some days, the map is of one singular place. i can barely trace my steps—just a slow turning on the small ground. the map goes: place. it is too easy to read entirely. sometimes i find myself wishing i didn’t know about the map to begin with.

i wait for the point in time where things will be easier. because i know enough. because i’ve worked through enough. because i’ve had enough conversations. because i’ve fucked up and then recovered enough.

i pedal, and i pedal, and i pedal. over time i may get faster, but going uphill is never not the difficulty of going up.


what to do with bad memories? a skinned knee. your body falling over a fire hydrant. the largest bruise on the softest thigh.


i began losing myself in men at 14. ribs, chunks of vaguely colored hair, whole sections of my calves. piece after piece, i set each one down and along with it the problems of my family, of gender, of selfhood. i forgot my self and the terrible burdens that might follow a body, one that is still healthy.

before i knew it, i had set my problems so far down that there was no other option but to turn away from the ground, to be swept off my feet. off my feet, off my feet, off my feet.


when will it be easier? cranberry juice, garbage bags, hair dye, tampons, pretzels. the grocery store i shop at most often sends out personalized coupons.


i began losing myself in men, slowly, in middle school. i didn’t know how to kiss. i knew this because i was told so. my friends and i even once took turns dating the same guy. by accident. or because we could only handle communal knowing. it was easier to look in the mirror and practice the mimicry of successful girlhood in the safety of groups. to share the same desires, the same tears, the same complaints. we all warned each other of his instability. that entire year of my life was an accident, a big hormonal oops.


dream: i met Tori and another idol, except in the dream it was just two of her: the Scarlet’s Walk T and the Night of Hunters T.

one of them (Night of Hunters T) had a handmade mug full of hot water that she gripped with both hands, taking long sips; the other (Scarlet’s Walk T) asked if she could get one too, “just like hers” (gestures toward her older self). to stand between the two of them as my boyfriend, accommodating my frantic orders, took a picture of the three of us—it was nearly unbelievable, even more so than the act of dreaming in the first place.


i began losing myself in men, imperceptibly, as a young child. i had my first “boyfriend” in 4th grade. we held hands during Skate Night and i must have thought that the sweat on his palm validated me, that his interest in me was like a souvenir that gave meaning to our encounters long after they occurred. i didn’t yet understand that i was slowly becoming the souvenir, the girlfriend, primed to be someone’s other.

i watched a lot of Boy Meets World. i believed in Cory & Topanga as if their relationship was a magic spell. i knew that finding a relationship was important. i knew my parents were going to be together forever and couldn’t understand why they spent so much time fighting, given my knowledge of their permanence.

girl gestures toward her older self.


pedal, sweat, pedal, sweat. i am so tired. there is no stopping, only the faint hope of one day catching up.


i can talk myself into anything and this makes me such a good writer and it makes me such a good thinker and it makes me, on my better days, such a good worker; and it makes me, on my focused and loving days, such a good girlfriend; and it makes me, on my self-care and feminist days, such a good friend; and it makes me, on the days where i eat food and enjoy the heater turned up a tiny bit extra in this chilled house, such a good cat mom; and it makes me, on days sandwiched by sleep, something else.

i can turn a TV show or a traditional binary or a social distraction into magic, just like that.

i want to say that i would eat the magic itself if i could, would pour a tall vial of it down through my mouth. but as it stands, it lives in me already in the form of a tiny ceramic pill, sitting at the pit of my stomach. contained, as if the thing down deepest within me is still somehow off limits. as if i can’t control what my insides are made of. as if the mass of the self can be too embedded.


dream: i was on my phone but my phone was a tiny phone-sized lined notepad. i flipped open to a blank page and sent a message to my girlfriend by writing something down. i closed the notepad. there was no way to know if and when she received my message without flipping the pages back open to check, hoping to see her cursive handwriting sprawled beneath mine. do you have time for a phone call right now?


always, i am having fake conversations in my head. it makes me a good writer. it makes time spent alone—early mornings when i wake up to an empty bed, when i’m driving on overly familiar roads, when i’m showering—treacherous. i get lost in everything i’m not doing, not really even saying.


all this talk of being present. these days, isn’t a healthy existence more of a balance? i have to know of my history, have to believe in it just as much, in order to exist fully in the present. and i have to also believe, for better or for worse, that i will continue existing tomorrow, next week, a year from now. i make obligations (job stuff, social stuff) and this helps me to exist presently and by exist presently i mean that i move through the day like a good human.

the lingering appeal of being a good girl. a good woman. “good,” as defined by…? and whatever the answer to that question is, tell me: to whom does it matter the most?


what happens to the body-brain relationship when you grow up encountering instances of bodily knowing in which your brain tells you to know otherwise?

for example: bodyhunger, versus the brain that knows the appeal of fitting through tight spaces.

for example: the visiblebody and all the agency it dreams for, versus the brain that knows how to disappear.

the brain that teaches the body how to disappear. please trust me when it comes to the value of relinquishing.

to live inside a human brain cursed with the need for perfection. it is basically to live your life tending toward some inevitable inward explosion.

like a tree pointing back at itself. some days, i bend my face down toward the dirt as if i may kiss it entirely.


i find myself—again, and again, and again—relying on language in order to know things. and yet it is language in which i find holes, cracks in the flooring, drafty windows, a mislaid roof. it is language which i know to be utterly untrustworthy and universally beside the point.

the revelation of language is only this: more language. compare this to the tree, revealing its various and complementary tree parts all winter long.

here is my naked face, here is a mile of pillows; here is the longest stretch of land that you can picture at once, and you’re almost certain never to see my body tracing such contours outside this lofty sentence.


everything you see, everything you encounter, everything you participate in: a person made it all. people just made decisions; they knew things and built outward from that knowing.

meanwhile, i remain: a teddy bear. i just mean i am still settling into myself. i carry fault lines. whole ecosystems of almost eruption.


language that is inclusive—don’t let it trick you into believing it knows something you don’t. language is a brain-centered body that doesn’t move. it can afford so much affection only because it’s a really good speller. it’s not even a person and yet here i am, conveying messages on its behalf.

i am just trying to stay alive in here.

i’ve experienced so very little, and yet it all barely fits in my chest; my brain can barely contain it.


big brain, small brain. big body, small body. i’ve known them all.

On composure

Sometimes, I think about this haunting sentence, from “On Erasure,” by Mary Ruefle:

…life is much, much more than is necessary, and much, much more than any of us can bear, so we erase it or it erases us, we ourselves are an erasure of everything we have forgotten or don’t know or haven’t experienced, and on our deathbed, even that limited and erased “whole” becomes further diminished, if you are lucky you will remember the one word water, all others having been erased.

Ruefle says that our lives are erasures because we cannot bear them in their entirety. I wonder about the conflicted life of the poet: simultaneously erasing and writing, erasing and writing, considering things she sometimes can’t bear to feel or remember; writing as an attempt to document, and then writing as an attempt purge.

Documenting and purging: there is a schism between the inner and outer world: between my private self and the one I make visible. And even this visible self is ruptured: I find myself intellectually, artistically, even ethically drawn toward & excited by the loss of composure—by the idea of refusing to accommodate the world’s demand of public poise—but I remain practically, viscerally scared of such a revelation. As a result, my motivation as a writer has been to creatively transpose the body into language, to alter my understanding of it via the expansion of words and, in doing so, (re)create my relationship to the body. In other words, to think and theorize my way through and around vulnerability, to walk closer toward it in words and then hope my body will follow. But what does it mean to take risks in writing that aren’t being taken in life? Where do I draw lines of responsibility and interest, of theory and practice, of personhood and poethood?

Before I came to articulate this motivation—before I’d even begun to recognize its preverbal form—I went to grad school. There are probably a lot of complicated reasons why I’ve erased almost all my memories from the composition theory course I took my first semester, but of the few that remain, I think of one almost weekly: I have no context leading up to this instance, nor any memory of what followed the moment when a professor said, with a slow deliberateness that almost revealed his southern drawl, “compose yourself.” Not to any one student in particular so much as to the room, calling attention to what the command is truly saying, compose yourself!, to make yourself readable and sensible and, as Butler might say, culturally intelligible. To be, especially if you are a woman, composed, as in emotionally contained. He didn’t say it directly to me but he might as well have, and that’s the first trick of language: to unlock a sense of self that previously wasn’t there. Suddenly, I heard the danger underlying those two superficially harmless words. And it is the loss of this composure, by which I mostly mean the appearance of composure—the revelation of the messy and complicated and uncontainable female self—which underlies the greatest form of risk I can imagine taking.

Hence the rupture: between word and body. I feel embarrassed and melodramatic making such statements, ones so clearly born of a privileged life, where risk has made few appearances. But what if this is the consequence of having confused my writing life with my real lived experiences one too many times? What does it even mean to associate risk with things like school, and poetry, and a kind of danger that is mostly visual, that is even theoretical, that hinges on the in/visibility of one’s most crafted and edited self? What do I mean when I say, “risk?” I tried mapping it out:

  • potential for public failure and/or mistakes
    • being seen as out of one’s “league” or “wheelhouse”
    • being seen as trying too hard or as overly ambitious
  • potential for confusion—either looking confused or confusing others
  • “that’s not something I would do”
  • potential for embarrassment and/or over-sharing
    • to make oneself too accessible
    • to make the invisible visible
      • to lose control
    • to inject emotion where it isn’t wanted
      • to lose composure
  • potential for discomfort
  • potential for confrontation

There is no space for my body in this list, and yet it all wraps tightly, every single possibility, around my skin. Perhaps I say body and I’m really just addressing the signified thing: not the organism standing in front of you, but the whole and its parts envisioned in the clear space of one’s reading mind. I can spill the word “body” all over the poem, include it in every single title, without having invest(igat)ed a single bone, a single strand of hair. And while some of the things listed above have to do with gender or trying new things, all of them revolve around constructed notions of self and success: how I present my personhood to the outside world, how I make visible to you the things that will validate my life as a good one. Composed in the ways I mean to be, and unintelligible so long as I am in control of the mess—so long as it is relegated mostly to the page.

In other words, there are things we bear in our selves and there are things we bear in our writing, and these are sometimes very different things and why, what does that mean?

I don’t even know if this essay is true. Or the difference between body and word: what I think I am afraid of; what I claim to be doing, in one medium or another. If the divide is not really just a blanket.

A true thing: Last summer, I finished reading Maggie’s Nelson’s The Argonauts during the late hours of the night while sitting in a crowded terminal in O’Hare. I was waiting for my repeatedly delayed flight home after visiting my best friend in Lafayette, Indiana. The trip coincided with her 30th birthday; we drank Polish vodka and rode horses with little instruction. Why do I tell you this? Because I cannot unstitch the context of my life from my writing and questioning and thinking. Perhaps writing is the only space in which I have no ability to compartmentalize, where I can consider anything so long as it is all at once, all in the same room. Where I can un-compose and re-compose myself as language demands: where I might become suddenly brave enough to enact the things I’m driven toward. Or, to choose to write about myself as if my boundaries are clear: here is what I do, here is what I write.

I tell myself I am writing to get closer to the body, but aren’t I just keeping it at bay?

Once, when I was a young girl in middle school, I wanted to be Gwen Stefani, and sometimes I remember the sense of it so acutely: how desire can feel urgent and enthralling and inspiring and quite unrealistic; how it can keep you, in secret inner ways, reaching forward toward a self comprised of all the things. Who needs “poetry” or “theory” or “memoir,” categories of definitive composure, when you can do them all at once? Who needs a cohesive sense of style when you can wear a skirt on top of your jeans!

Does the self begin on the page, in word, and grow larger from there? Sometimes I feel like I’ve taken the longest route possible to achieve a short thing. Sometimes I feel like I’ve started a life backwards, relegating my achievements, my ideas, my best selves to language. As if I need to know the right words first before anything happens: as if words make up the vessel in which I’ll be caught. As if poetry ever had anything to do with the soul.

When I’m writing, I tell myself it is toward messiness and complexity. But I repeatedly run head first into an inherent disposition toward composure, toward control, engulfed in the fear of anything otherwise. Can fear be a habit? I tell myself that I figure out important personal things in writing, but perhaps I am making it all up, the words acting like a safe distance, like an arm’s reach I can keep myself at always. Sometimes, I’ll realize a mistake I’ve made in life, see something in the poem and chastise myself for not having recognized it sooner elsewhere. But with any instance of clarity, I’m never learning from my mistakes so much as finally catching up with them, out of breath, making space for myself slowly over long stretches of uneven time. Trying to un-contain and re-contain my body through language and yet remaining consistently frozen with my back against the wall, with my back against the page. A safe or habitual or made-up response to the world’s pervasive demand that I compose myself.


[Note: this essay also appeared in the Ottawa Poetry Newsletter]