I recently went through some of my old poetry files and discovered something mildly amusing: apparently, I have been writing about the same things for years. Not exactly the same poems, per se. But the same ideas keep returning. Like love, hunger, home, longing, mistakes, the desire to be seen and understood. What changed was the way I wrote about them. Some of the poems I found were from 2018. They were softer, more direct, and very earnest. Their titles alone say a lo

“I made a sanctuary of you...” Domus Numeni began with perfume, song, and being stuck in traffic. At the time, I did not imagine I was beginning a ninety-poem collection with its own mythology, recurring voices, miniature narrative arcs, theological arguments, crusaders, goddesses, lovers, cooks, skeptics, and one particularly amused spectator watching the faithful march through town. I was simply thinking about scents. As a perfumer, this has always fascinated me becau

When I was younger, birthdays seemed to be a second Christmas. With food, gifts, guests, and a day of fun and play. But as I grew older, birthdays became less of a celebration than an evaluation. And it's not that I am against birthdays. Salads are very much welcome. Yet somewhere between the greetings, food, and polite inquiries sharpened into social measurement, I feel less like a celebrant than a person pending review. I say this because birthdays sometimes require you to