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<i>The old neighborhood just ain't the same – The Band</i>

A typical door has three parts: the pin, the knuckles, and the leaves. The two leaves touch the surface: one for the door, one for the frame. The knuckle's where the leaves meet in the middle. It lets the door move once the pin's slid in, to hold the thing in place. The leaves are also known as wings. When a door is closed, the wings touch, pressed perfectly together: door to hinge to frame. The knuckles are hidden on the inside, then. From the outside, you might think the door is floating. To open the door, you first need a body. The identical wings will part. The door will retreat to clear a space. Then, through the frame, our bodies might move.

<div>“You remember too much / my mother said to me recently. / Why hold onto all that? And I said, / Where can I put it down?” – Anne Carson.<br></div><div>This is a collection of poems; this is where I can put it down.</div><div><br></div>

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<p>A collection of lyric poetry that explores subjective feeling in contrast with public sentiment through the lens of the life and legacy of marine biologist and writer Rachel Carson, including what the idea of “legacy” means for women, science, queerness, and (auto)biography.<br></p>

<div>From the mind</div><div>of a single, long vine,</div><div>one-hundred opening lives</div><div><br></div><div>(Chiyo-Ni translated by Jane Hirshfield and Mariko Aratani)<br></div>

<div> <div> <div> <p>A collection of poems centering a missing brother, an absent father, a dying mother, and other complicated family dynamics.<br></p> </div> </div> </div>