The Nine of Wands
a love letter to the lunar language of childhood and the essay collections that capture it.
Dear Kiernan, my love,
Theo has reached the age that my poet body has been waiting for him to reach. Most every time he opens his mouth to speak, I am excited—borderline ecstatic on my best days—because I am already thrilling in anticipation at whatever language might come out. He's not all random babble or once-in-a-while kiddie koans anymore so much as…