Poet. Designer.

Leopardess is a book about the body. It is a book about illness, motherhood, and inheritance. It is a book about what cannot be escaped. The poems are direct and visceral; they gaze closely. They name what is painful, and sometimes they hurt.

The speaker moves through hospitals and homes, through memory and the moment—attending to children and to the dying, measuring time in breaths, in symptoms, in small, daily acts of care. Animals appear alongside people, alongside myth. Each becomes a way of seeing what it means to live inside a body that can falter and fail.

But clarity does not hold. The language quickens, begins to slip its frame, until the body opens and spills—blood, milk, fever, light—everything crossing its thresholds at once, everything refusing containment and calm. Through it all moves the leopardess, sleek and merciless, her jaws both cradle and end, a figure at once mother and predator and illness, carrying every contradiction the poems refuse to resolve. Rooms tilt, the sky splits, and time loops and flares, so that what is lost returns, briefly and unbearably, as something like love.

Leopardess leaves the reader inside this unfolding—breathing, burning, awake.