Read my work
Instructions for Erasure
after Gordon Hirabayashi
Call the prison Honor Camp.
Locate it in the desert, near the base
of a mountain. Arrest issei, nisei,
even those with only one Japanese-American
great-grandparent. Charge them
with conscientious objecting,
immigration (!) violations. Imprison them
in barracks on concrete slabs that hold
the chill of too many nights. In desiccating
heat, make them build a road to the top
of the mountain with pick axes, shovels.
Force them to build the superintendent’s
house on a hill overlooking the barracks,
landscaping terracotta rocks into enduring
terraces. When a persistent and honorable
prisoner arrives – on his own accord – do not
let him cause trouble. Keep extra eyes on him,
watch for signals. Do this for years.
After the war, fill the prison with young men,
mostly black and brown. Keep the prison going
for decades. Eventually, close Honor Camp.
Demolish all buildings to their foundations,
bury any reminders. Repurpose the land
into a campground, horse corral, trailheads.
Bring back to honor the honorable prisoner,
whom a shrewd president apologized to,
40 years later. Build a kiosk with historical
photos and text, but away from the campground
where few will see it. Post a sign at the road
the honorable prisoner helped build. Attach
his name to the sign. Call it a recreation site.
(Honorable Mention, Lader Poetry of Witness Award, North Carolina Poetry Society, 2025.)
At Dusk, Salmon Spawn
Chum know where home shines and the quest,
leave seas behind and roaming years.
Rise moon, spin filigrees of silver flesh.
Each fall they return, numbers small and pressed
to streams of birth they churn and veer.
Chum know where home shines and the quest.
Ancient cycles spawn but with the same zest?
Autumn rot of carcasses sears
rise moon, spin filigrees of silver flesh.
Fish the size of good men’s arms and chests
fight through snags and silt, I hear.
Chum know where home shines and the quest,
they rest and nest in still pools ever west
with great heaves strike shore weary.
Rise moon, spin filigrees of silver flesh.
Spawn, thrash and flop then silent, ever rest
providence for loam, beaver and deer.
Chum know where home shines and the quest,
rise moon, spin filigrees of silver flesh.
(Published in I Sing the Salmon Home anthology, Rena Priest, ed., Empty Bowl Press. Winner of the 2024 Washington State Book Award for Best Poetry Anthology.)
Articles
The Echo, Black Hills Audubon Newsletter, July 2024
The Echo, Black Hills Audubon Newsletter, July 2024
Photo by Jessica Ryan
“Suzanne’s collection both inspired and humbled me with its craftsmanship and depth. She is truly gifted with words! The first poem in the book alone is worth a million reads. I began my meditation this morning with Suzanne’s book and I got so many messages. One thing that distinguishes her writing is deep intelligence. She defines ‘home’ and ‘housing’ in ways most people don't or can't.”
Joanne Clarkson, poet, Pushcart Prize nominee
& author of Hospice House
“What grabbed me by the eyeballs was the second poem in the book, “Bliss, Kansas,” and its opening lines: ‘Bliss, Kansas/lies at the intersection/of State Road Not Quite There/and County Road Almost Here.’ Having grown up in eastern Kansas, and driven west across the prairie more times than I can count, I know that intersection, and, as the poem progresses, I know that town. The poems in this collection evoke an amazingly wide range of moods and responses. What strikes me most strongly is Suzanne’s ability to capture the essence of a place or an event or an emotional state.”
Andra Weddington, Senior Mediator,
Dispute Resolution Center of Thurston County