So much of my work, I find on reflection, exists in the unsaid, in what is left unarticulated.

I think of my childhood spent without thought of the prison, and my persistent reticence to know my father’s position in it.

I think of the silence that first surrounded my sexual identity, my refusal to name it, to own it.

And I think of the dimmed sounds heard underwater as I move back and forth across the pool.