Some things won’t fit in a report, a novel.
I lived under cover — in war, in danger, in the quiet fractures a life like that leaves in a marriage and a father’s hands. The work demanded silence. The pressure had to go somewhere.
It went here.
These poems are not separate from the analysis, the arguments, the book. They are the same mind working in a different register — spare, direct, true. What the essays prove with evidence, the poems carry in weight.
Read them the same way I wrote them. Slowly. Once is not enough.
