Work Samples

Created for Really Spicy Opera’s Aria Institute in collaboration with composer A.C. Lovett

Cool, fresh, seafaring air,
salt and brine and soul,
windswept, prickles the skin.
Tide tugs under toe.
Smooth, soft, sand so quick
transports, transcends. Transfixed.

Mighty I stand beneath glory,
as waves crash. And waves fall.

Blue… all around!
So deep you’d think it — infinite.
Endless. Unheld. Unimaginably — free!
Free upon the endless undulating indigo.
Unabashed, unlimiting blue.

They, seeking refuge
in the cradle of home,
repose in their comfort,
repress the unknown.
I, in the eye
of the storm treading still,
hold fast against chains,
against shoulds, against will.

If the music won’t cease,
and the players won’t tire,
and no lullaby quiets
the noise of the choir,
then the cradle’s a prison,
a cage, a display,
where the child is watched,
but the child can’t play.

This ‘home’ that you speak of
is not my word to claim.
A home is a haven
in more than just name.
Untethered, unheld
in a cradle of my own,
I’ll repose in my comfort
and embrace the unknown.

Within this time — la pandemia —
I’ve lived my own pandemia.
A family unraveling —
preparando para la muerte,
preparing for death — for grief.
My tower of control, shakes, creaks, moans —
and you ask:
¿Qué es el ser si no la nada?

We two have not always seen one another.
Ours has been a love of thorns —bristling — stubborn.
Life — all-knowing — broke them, silly playthings.
And you, my father, ask:
¿Qué es el ser si no la nada?

Seven years of sickness softened you, months of isolation me.
And we — speak —
meet one another —
try to understand:
who am I without you?
And you ask:
¿Qué es el ser si no la nada?

In the absence of all that was —
an emptiness — a speck —
two syllables — an accent mark — name that calls to home —
to heritage —
to rich ancestry, una ascendencia hermosa.

Death has made us familiar, my father.

Morning, sunshine! How’s it shakin’?
We’re fresh out of eggs and bacon!
I’d go to the shop,
but the snow won’t be stoppin’
‘til noon.

Peering up into the cupboard,
not to fear, I’ve got you covered!
I thought that I’d check
to be sure I’ve got breakfast
for two.

Two cups mix and one cup water,
simpler than it really oughtta be — good and buttery!
(With just a hint of a crisp!)

Look at that, it’s barely snowin’.
Two o’clock! Let’s get to goin’!
How time really flies
when the pancakes arise.
Damn, that’s good!

Happy birthday to you!

Another night, another Zoom,
one birthday closer to the tomb.
We lift the beers that still remain;
we toast to you to ease your pain.
See, you’re an extrovert at heart,
and so this party spent apart
has been impossible to bear,
hence, this overblown affair.

For me, it’s perfect in a sense:
The birthday girl can be intense.
But now to combat her extremes
I mute the volume when she screams.
A 21st spent in a bar,
I say an early au revoir,
but on Zoom I lie in bed,
forgetting all my social dread.

I lead Quiplash and Guess Who,
the introvert now born anew.
I think when quarantine is done
I’ll go to parties, have more fun.
But then the birthday girl cries “SHOTS!”
My stomach rolls and turns in knots.
And suddenly I sober up.
I exit Zoom and down my cup.