Do you have a bird story or favorite feathered friend?

When I was a kid, I was often rescuing animals. I don’t know how I found myself in these situations. Some winged thing would fly into a friend’s house, thrash about, get hurt. We’d lay it in a box, call animal control. I didn’t live in the woods. I’d visit friends who did, find a baby rabbit, motherless, put it in a box, buy a teeny-tiny baby bottle, feed it, until it died, of course. Before anything else, I wanted to be an animal care specialist (that’s basically a vet, sans having to give shots). Like a lot of little kids, I felt a deep connection with the animal world; it was so vulnerable, wild, fierce. I learned early lessons from these animals. Lessons of loss, care & survival.

What is your most memorable reading experience?

I love this question. It’s like asking, “When did you find yourself most lost?” Hanya Yanigahara’s A Little Life was obliterating. I happened to be reading it simultaneously with a core group of friends, an unofficial book club. We would support one another through its devastations & commiserate wide-eyed through its sprawl & beauty. As you may know, the book is about 800 pages, maybe more, so to be immersed for that long was like living in another dimension. Yet, it takes places in New York, where I live, so I felt the possible ghost-shadow-traces of the characters all around me. Walking in Manhattan, I still do. That’s the power of a book.

What makes you most excited about Odes to Lithium?

Its existence––its body––is a mirror of my body’s strengths, grapplings, capacities, incapacities, humanness, desires, gifts, & rung-by-rung ascents. A book is not only a house for the writer’s mind, but a house for whatever mind seeks shelter there. The rain may come down hard, but a book’s roof is limitless. To know that there are others out there, grappling with mental illness in whatever way they are, turning my pages, finding solace & balm in this collection has sincerely given me deeper breath, stiller heart, & the endurance to keep speaking.

To tweet or not to tweet?

To tweet! A tweet can be a poem / bad joke / good joke / lifesaver (in candy form) / life affirmer / information booth / sharing device / split mango / popcorn on a summer roof / a bad dog you can’t help petting. A tweet can be anything you want.

What books do you have in your bag right now?

Alternating, so the bag stays light: Good Talk by Mira Jacob. People on a Bridge by Wislawa Szymborska. good woman by Lucille Clifton. Essentialism by Greg McKeown.

Can you tell us your favorite rejection story?

My favorite rejection story is that a press I really love passed on Odes to Lithium, which, of course, hurt. It was such a blessing. It makes me cringe to think of that manuscript getting published. What ended up happening: I pushed through, reworked the manuscript on my own, went on residencies, devoted a ton of time to the books alchemy. When Alice James picked up the book 7 months later, it was so complete, so done, something I could get behind 100%. I believe we only made 2 or 3 (non-copywriting) edits to the manuscript. It arrived when it was ready, on its own terms. I encourage students of mine to remember that the manuscript knows who (& when) it wants to be, more so than any imposed timeline you (or someone else) has.

What literary journals do you love?

Winter Tangerine! Adroit! The Sun Magazine!

What shakes your tail feathers?

Am I allowed to say Zumba at my local gym? Am I allowed to say I put my nose in the coffee beans every morning before I brew & feel––yes, that’s it, what could only be––flight? Am I allowed to say, when the sunlight gets so yellow it looks freakishly, Van Goghishly, painted? Or that after allllll these years, after allllll these poems, I’ll still sometimes come across a poem that blasts my socks right off & flaps ‘em over my eyes like wool glasses? Building a step-stool from IKEA all by myself, flexing a Soft Butch TM arithmetic? The tender way my cat naps with his paw under his chin, so human-like? How my partner makes me laugh so hard, so often, I feel like I’m getting away with something?

What advice do you have for fledgling writers?

I see what you did there with “fledgling,” birdy one. The root of “fledgling” is “untried.” The etymology for “fledge” is to “having the feathers developed, equipped to fly.” In this spirit, using the deep history & intrinsic direction of language itself, understand that your only job is to try, & keep trying, & keep trying. To try is to experiment. To experiment is to grow. To grow is to be in flow, to flower. To be in flow, to flower, is to sprout. To sprout is to understand wingedness. To understand wingedness is to, you guessed it, fly. Play with form. Imitate others. Be ambitious. Fail better, as they say. Let your love of the open sky guide you.

What other eggs do you have in your basket right now?

Geesh. Too many to count. I’m nearly done with my second poetry collection. I’ve got YA, & middle grade, constantly on the brain. To be honest, there’s so many different eggs popping up for my attention that I’m taking a moment to pause, breathe, catch up to my ideas, & most importantly, celebrate what’s arrived. I’m holding Odes to Lithium close in gratitude, & wherever I’m invited, I happily keep sharing it.