I have spent enough years
watching shoes
to distrust
first impressions.
A name crosses the room.
A backpack is flung against the cinderblock wall.
A water bottle leaves its damp ring
on black marley worn pale
by entrances, exits, curtain calls,
by kings, widows, lovers, murderers,
by seventeen-year-olds
who believe tragedy lives in volume
and forty-year-olds who arrive
already acquainted
with silence.
A left heel angles toward the door.
Toes tighten
inside borrowed character shoes.
Weight gathers
along the outside of the foot,
where children first discover
that laughter
and being laughed at
arrive through the same door.
Some sounds never leave the room.
They find a surface,
turn once,
and spend years
coming back
as echoes
against the wall.
There must be some reason
the body keeps records
the mind—busy with grades, groceries,
taxes, traffic, passwords, anniversaries—
files away as finished.
Some reason
the shoulders rise
even when the room remains kind.
Some reason
the jaw, faithful as a lockbox,
finds its work again
under fluorescent tubes
buzzing overhead
with the steady indifference
of state-funded buildings.
And breath—
that ancient accomplice,
that old collaborator,
that invisible scene partner
who has crossed every border
without passport, permission,
or applause—
waits.
I have watched hundreds arrive.
Some carrying scripts
already underlined.
Some carrying talent
like contraband.
Some carrying humor
loaded
in the back of the throat,
polished by repetition,
released
the instant
a silence
turns personal.
Some carrying beauty
they haven't yet noticed
in the mirror.
And every so often—
with no music,
no revelation,
no visible sign
to anyone
who has not spent
a good part of her life
watching human beings
approach themselves—
the floor receives
its full measure.
The spine remembers
its oldest mathematics.
The ribs make room.
A voice,
patient through childhood,
through manners,
through institutions,
through every careful lesson
in becoming agreeable—
hits oxygen
and catches fire.
© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2026
Tag: Modern Poetry
The Desert Series by Iris Lennox
Iris Lennox is the pen name I use for poems that gather around image, landscape, memory, faith, and the spiritual weight of ordinary things.
The poems belong to the same larger body of work as my essays on theatre, performance, communication, and attention, but they enter that work through a more lyrical form. Where my theatre essays often move through analysis, argument, and dramatic structure, the Iris Lennox poems begin with physical encounter: red dust, desert wind, silence, Scripture, stars, and the strange way wild places sharpen both sight and thought.
Here are five poems from The Desert Series, written during a recent trip through the high desert.
This summer, I’ll be publishing my first collection of poetry under the name Iris Lennox.
The primary home for Iris Lennox poetry is IrisLennox.com.
Whisper the Passing Time
Memory sifted through their hands
Like water
Or like sand—
The kind of sand that lays flat
On desert ground
And all around the blistered feet
Of those who stand and watch the sun
With faces red
And cracking under heat
Filtered through dust—
Or like water.
Like water
In trickles
Between fingers pruning with excess
Trying to keep it there
Sickeningly aware
Of the weakness in the spaces
Between their fingers
And their hands—
Their memories fell right through
Splashed around their ankles
In a shallow pool
Reflecting upward
Not what was held
But what remained.
Recollections darkened
Not gone—
But changed
Into purples and blues
Certain as midnight
Uncertain as morning.
The light from those days
Did not disappear
It bent
Casting shadows
From the figures they had formed
In the mind—
Standing still
Even as everything else moved.
Not that they lied,
They simply could not see
That the laughter of then
Would return differently
That what once rang out
Clear and effortless
Would come back softened
Carrying weight
They had not yet learned to name.
They heard the voices
Of those they knew
From long ago days
When laughter was simple
Easy as something rolling
Downward
Without resistance—
Smooth in the hand
Bright in the light
Held up and turned
Until color revealed itself
And then slipped away again.
Recollections continued
Not fixed
Not held—
But moving
Across the surface of them
As water does
As sand does
Shifting
Settling
Lifting
And falling
Without asking permission.
Their memories were old
But inside them
Something remained
Not unchanged—
But present.
A trace
A tone
A warmth
That did not belong
Only to the past
But to the shape
Of what they had become.
Memory sifted through their hands
And still
Something stayed—
Not in the grasp
But in the holding
They could no longer see.
Recollections whispered
The passing time—
Not hurried
Not still—
Simple as a falling grain
Intricate as the path it takes.
© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2026
Poem: A Modest Proposal for the Internet Age
There is a version of you
already walking around out there.
She has good lighting.
He is a series of clean paragraphs.
They speak in sentences that arrive
fully dressed.
No one interrupts them.
No one misquotes them.
No one catches the moment
before the thought lands.
They do not hesitate.
They do not circle back.
They do not say,
“Wait, that’s not what I meant.”
This version of you
does not exist in your kitchen
or your car
or the quiet ten minutes
before sleep.
Still, she is convincing.
She has been liked.
Shared.
Saved for later
by people who will not remember
where they found her.
Meanwhile,
you forget what you were saying
mid-sentence.
You start projects you never return to.
You carry conversations in your body
long after they’ve ended.
You revise yourself
in the shower.
You win arguments
three days late.
There is no algorithm for that.
No one clicks
on the unfinished version.
No one bookmarks
the moment you changed your mind
and did not announce it.
And yet,
this is the only place
anything real has ever happened.
Not in the caption,
but in the pause before it.
Not in the post,
but in the hour you spent
deciding whether to speak at all.
The Internet will continue
to assemble you
from fragments.
A sentence here.
A photograph there.
A tone someone will misunderstand
and carry with them
as if it were complete.
You will be summarized
by people who have never
heard your voice in a room.
You will be known
in ways that are technically accurate
and entirely untrue.
This is not a problem
to be solved.
It is a condition.
So—
wash your cup.
answer the email you’ve been avoiding.
tell the truth
in the next small conversation
that asks it of you.
Let your life become
slightly more aligned
with the person
who appears so effortlessly
on a screen.
Not perfectly.
Not all at once.
Just enough
that if someone were to meet you
without context,
without history,
without the archive—
they would recognize you.
And if they didn’t,
you would not feel the need
to explain.
Now,
go and become the person
you want the Internet to think you are.
© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2026
Poem: Algorithms of Fathers and Sons (And Daughters, Too)
There is a jukebox in the corner
Where saddle shoes used to tread
Under skirts and socks with lace
Splattered with drippings from
Chocolate malts and shakes,
Where pearls would bounce
And roll across the floor.
Tile black and white—
I know it sounds trite
Like paisley on a bow tie
But patterns and bow ties
Bring order to the madness—
Also hamburgers, French fries
Ponytails and Snake Eyes.
He came to this place
Where the music was stuck—
Records displaying
Yellowed faces
Songs replaying
Grooves worn low
Weary, dull and much too slow.
Going backward
Isn’t really his thing
But there came a day
When his soul melted
Slipped through his lungs
Leaked and oozed
Puddled around the soles of his shoes.
Forward
No longer
Was an option for him—
What was he supposed to do?
Walk away, a shell of a man
Empty but for the wind
Whistling through?
He stood
Until noon traveled around him
Draped over the moon
Darkness descended,
Then fell his soul
Standing stuck
He heard the rattling of a rancid truck.
“Move aside,”
Said a man
Who smelled like Linus looks
Plus the tan lines of a garbage man,
“You’re in my way,
and what is this filth
at your feet?”
Accustomed to the dross
Of the city streets
With fetid hands the garbage man
Began to lift the spilt soul
Which was running into the ditch but,
“Wait!,”
Cried the empty man.
“That is not junk
though it lacks the glow
of gold
please leave it here
with me
it is all I have
if the truth is told.”
“All you have?”
Laughed the man
With the smell of human waste
On his hands,
“Then pick it up.”
Then came the second truth,
“I can’t.”
“I need your help,”
The wind spun around his tongue
Then played the space
Between his ribs
And his lungs
Like a concerto for weakening
Flesh and bone.
“Damn it all,”
The collector of trash replied
As he bent at the waist
To clean up the spill
That rolled down the hill
Before it crusted, caked and dried
Under the heat of the sun.
“I’ll put it in your pocket
now move along
get something to eat
there is a diner
across the street
that serves the lost
and the weak.”
And so, this is how he came
To the place echoing with the past—
The jukebox, the pearls
Where nothing was meant to last—
Fate brought him low
Then brought him here
To face the time where it all began
(Thanks to the garbage man).
“I don’t understand,”
He thought to himself
Then said it out loud
As his eyes rolled around
Searching for some logic
He could grip
Or some algorithm
He could apply to the script.
And then
Entered a ghost
With matted hair
On the sides of his head
Coming out of his ears,
A limp in his knee and
Teeth glowing green.
“I don’t believe in ghosts,”
Said the empty man
“Tough shit,”
Said the apparition
Blunt in his delivery and
Over dramatic
In his long flowing livery.
“Do you have a cigarette?”
Coughed the ghost
To which the live one replied,
“Do you always start with small talk?
I don’t mean to gawk but
your presence and general
demeanor are starting to piss me off.”
“You are here for a reason
and so am I
we need to get some things straight
before it’s too late
for you.
As you can see
it’s already too late for me.”
The beginning and the end
Sounded like a riddle
But somewhere in the middle
The living man
Recognized the voice,
“Dad?”
He squinted and then stuttered.
“No shit,”
Said the ghost and then
Once more,
“Do you have a cigarette?”
The living man
Almost fell to the floor
“Here, one of my last four.”
They sat in a booth,
The jukebox began to croon
They ordered hotdogs with ketchup
Had no forks
Cut their food with a spoon,
“I don’t mean to pry
but why have you come?”
“I met her here in 1952
we were both too young
to know what to do
so we loved and had fun
and then she had you
I thought of staying
but I couldn’t follow through.”
They sipped coke through a straw
To fill the long pause,
“Again, I wonder
why are you here?”
The ice clinked
In the ghost’s tall curvy glass,
“I know I was an ass
I feel kind of bad
I heard you needed me there
but I didn’t know—
shit—
it was hard to stay away
and hard to stay
I wanted to say . . .”
A pause.
And a tightening of the throat
Both the man and the ghost
Turned and squirmed,
“But why today?”
Asked the living son
Who wanted to run but chose to stay.
“Before I go to my final space
I was given the gift
once more
to see your face
and written there
I saw your hopelessness—
it rendered my journey motionless.”
“Is that when my soul
dripped all the way out?”
The ghost whispered back,
“That wasn’t your soul
it was fear and self-doubt
and I couldn’t help but
notice my name
on the puss that spilled out
so I used my airy powers
to stop your feet
with the little time I have left
I wanted to meet
in case my song repeats
after I’m gone.”
The air was still
Atmosphere heavy
Like before a storm
The ground felt shaky
And covered with worms
Snakes, anteaters and obese germs.
“I took a bit of you
and left too much of me
dropped you in a hole
of anonymity
no sure identity
as is given by a dad
and when you reached for me
your hand collapsed
empty
confused
your confidence slid—
but hear me now:
you are the best thing
I ever did.”
The living man
Felt a peace begin to grow
In a place he did not know
Existed before today
Above his ribs, above his lungs
Where scabs were hung
Replaced with Band-Aids.
“I didn’t know
and I have a lot of questions
but I feel your time is fleeting
so I will ask only one
why wait
so late
to have this meeting?”
“Time is made of seconds and of hours
each tick devours each tock
as we ignore the face of the clock
take for granted the breath
and selfishly hold the seasons
in vaults of the mind we keep locked
for prideful reasons.
But I tell you,
my son,
you are not
hopeless
I see your shine
and as long as you are living
there is still
time
so live
and be the you that is
free
of the weight of me
and my stupidity,
I am sorry.”
Then the ghost
He didn’t believe in
Vanished
To whence he came
But left a ray of something
Maybe hope
And the jukebox continued to play.
© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2026 (updated)
Poem: And She Flew
Currents of wind
Grasping blue
From the sky
Mixing colors—
Translucent white
Floating by
In puffs
Like smoke
But water
Cascading
Masquerading
As clouds, drifting down
To rest upon
The ocean’s top
Atop the undercurrents
Pulling dark and light
Together
In a haze
Under the phase
Of the moon
Where fullness
Steers the darkness
From the light.
At night the sense of
Flight
Alights
In dreams and hopes
A knotted rope
Hangs from the stars
And swings
As she sings
Like a bird
Whose song is sung
Carelessly
Without thought
She calls into the night
Filling it
From empty
To bright
And falls into
The space where
Downwind caresses
Upwind lifts
And buoyancy calls her
Higher still.
As hummingbirds swing
Creatures below
Sting
With venom held
Inside teeth
Red with the catching
Stories repeat
Through dust and mold
Dark with lies
Whispered inside
By unseen spies
Who feed on souls
Who fill the roles
Like actors
Paid to play
Unable to reach
The heart
And open—
Unfold
Like art.
The ones below
Whose wings were clipped
Set a scheme
Narrow as a
Tightrope
A balance beam
A trap
Set with bait
And they waited
Inside a box
Designed to promise
The only way
Into hope
From hopelessness—
To pull her down
To steal her crown
A crucible
Of fire
Inside folded walls
Where stories
Cease to be told.
She flapped her wings
Tilted her head
Toward the earth
Wondered
Then wandered
Through the expanse
Where freedom
Takes its chance
On little birds
Such as she
She caught a breeze
Saw her reflection
In the sea
Caught a glimpse
Of her worth
And floated down
To the cardboard flaps
Of the box
The dark ones
Moved
Like worms
The kind of worms
Eaten by birds.
It looked easy enough
Fold the second flap
Then the first
And follow the way
They had planned
To be kept
From the sky
From the breeze
From the warmth of the sun
The turn of the season
From the spring
That would
Enchant her
Like a lover
Enhance her
With colors
Vibrant
Breathing
Beating
With life
To romance her.
“No,” she thought
And then—
“No,” she said
The comfort of that dark
Is stark
The safety of that space
Is small
A quiet that settles
For an hour
Sweet at first
Then turning
She felt it
And knew it
And chose—
She rose
And she flew
And she flew.
© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2026
Poem: Subsequent Kingdom
The hour came
When she no longer knew
Where to stand and so
She sat
In the middle of a ground
Hollowed of movement
And sound.
Wrapped her arms around
The tops of her knees,
Squeezed and held
Herself in a balance
That felt like a trance.
Faded memories danced,
Then turned into smoke,
Lifted up
And away—
Transformed day into
Night,
Where what was bright
Had taken flight.
There was no way
To know for sure
Where her plight would
Take her
Or send her next
But to a dream—
So she slept and found
That nightmares abound,
But dreams are the things
Worth stepping into.
And so
She slept
And she stepped.
She entered—
Her feet soaked in regret,
A substance heavier than she knew.
Underfoot,
Leaves crunching,
Small souls darting,
Dripping mysteries and dew.
She stood in a hidden forest
Where light was shattered
By shadow—
The sun trickling
Down tree trunks
Until devoured by shade.
In this place—
Where light and dark collide—
Life breathed
Without fear of
Being censured
Or scrutinized.
Her hands trembled,
Adding vibration to the breeze
Shaken loose from unseen clouds,
Wrapping around her skin
And seeping past
Petrified courage within.
Location undisclosed—
To she and he and me.
Lost inside—
No fear of being unfound,
No regret of being drowned
Between the monotony there
And this rising cacophony of sound—
Increasing swells surrounding,
Like a riptide racing outward,
Tearing her loose from security,
Crowning her
With confounding obscurity.
A subsequent Queen
Bowed low—
In coronation,
Surrendered to unpredictability,
Relinquished proposals
And control.
Her scepter raised,
Exposing the cavity
Of beating heart and soul,
Warring against
Encroaching enemies
Threatening to bring her low.
She breathed.
She sighed.
She caught the eyes
Of a creature drawing near.
In him—a revelation
She held dear,
Yet sensed she should not go near.
Stuck
Between stimulus
And choice—
As thick as tangled underbrush below,
As wide as these grounds
She did not know—
She stood still.
A stabbing thrill
Entered her side,
Some kind of alive
Breaching the tenderness
Of the space
Where her secrets hide.
She lowered her scepter,
Compelled to disavow
The tenacity of her presence here—
In a place
Perhaps she should fear.
There he stood,
Quite near.
Treading upon this undisclosed ground
Gave air to her footsteps,
And she, like a child,
Laid her focus
At the feet of he
And of mysteries
Surrounding her there—
She worshiped at the altar
Of her long-forgotten
Sense of wonder.
Unexpected places.
Unimagined faces.
Unforeseen encounters
Reminded her that life
Is an unpredictable force—
Impossible to bridle
By will alone.
“Let it be,”
Said she—
With an indignant air
Of possibility,
A heaviness in her lungs
Making it difficult to breathe—
Yet she breathed,
And she sighed,
And she moved into his realm,
Stuck her fingers in,
And pried him open—
Revealing his positives
To her negatives.
A Pandora’s Box
Of magnetism—
Cataclysmic exposure,
Volcanic disclosure—
Blasted through their chests
And up through
The tops of the trees.
A burst of what was unseen
Careened,
Trading winds
With all that was seen—
A hurricane of chemistry,
Unforeseen,
Destroying the routine
Like a machine
Come to life
With a sharpened pulse.
She realized too late
That being crowned
In her dream
Unbound her stream
Of waking consciousness—
Stuck now inside her sleep,
Between worlds,
Stewing in a concoction
Of waking memory
And present dream.
She remembered when
She had a choice—
When she sat
With her arms wrapped
Around her knees,
A breeze of normalcy
Blowing across
Tear-stained cheeks:
“The tears I knew
Were softer
Than these torrents
Where light and dark
Steal what was—
What is—
And twist the present
With what they undo.”
The hour returned.
She no longer knew
Where the path of her then
Met the path of her now.
So she sat with her crown,
Awaiting sundown—
Her sleeping life
Mingling within
Her subsequent kingdom.
© Jill Szoo Wilson, updated 2026
Poem: The Thing Itself
Silence is not the same as peace.
Quiet is different than calm.
Even the lake that mirrors
our sun collapsing
into night’s slow unmaking
teems with life—
muscle and current
moving beneath its silvered skin.
Silence is not the same as peace.
Peace is not an exhale of agreement.
It does not depend
on our foreheads touching
or my lungs
drawing in your breath
as if oxygen were opinion.
Peace does not ask
the mouth to soften
while the heart stays braced.
Peace is not an exhale of agreement.
Contentment is not stagnation.
It is wind finding corridors in air,
invisible highways
where birds trade
the panic of wings
for the steadiness of lift.
Contentment is not stagnation.
A voice once warned,
“Silence
like a cancer grows.”
But silence is a vessel.
Clay.
Hollow.
It holds what we pour into it.
Speaking is not the same as expressing.
Words rise like smoke
from cigarettes of perception,
stinging the eyes,
thickening the air,
blurring the space
between meaning
and what was meant.
Speaking is not the same as expressing.
Volume does not mold understanding.
Voices rise.
The need to be right
outpaces the need to listen.
The echo fills the room
until we cannot hear
each other breathe.
Volume does not mold understanding.
Distorting the self does not create unity.
Your red and my blue
collide into purple—
first a storm in water,
then something dense,
new,
pressing outward.
Distorting the self does not create unity.
To understand the thing itself—
whatever thing it be—
we must remain vessels.
Clay—
not hardened
by fear,
not sealed
by pride.
Open enough
to hold what is spoken
and what trembles beneath it.
© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2026
Poem: A Man Lay Dying in a Field
A man lay dying in a field
between blades of grass,
panting
like a dog without water,
searching for air
not to be found.
In the quiet of night
where darkness
falls
and fills the earth,
spilling into
crevices deep and wide,
he wondered at the sky.
The reasons why
seemed now
to matter most—
there was nothing left
to boast.
Emptied of the fight,
his limbs
dreamed of flight.
Wrists turned upward,
soft skin
receiving midnight dew.
Fluttering eyelashes—
butterfly wings
above his blue.
Whispered memories
of when hope was fresh,
a fruit heavy with sweet.
A sound in the sky.
Wings opened wide.
Staring,
but not seeing.
Hearing,
he began to listen.
A breeze,
like mystery,
rolled in—
a wave in the expanse,
surfing stars
in a cosmic dance.
His limbs began to sway,
cradled by beauty
far and near,
above and surrounding.
His heaving stilled.
Focus tore free
from breathlessness
to oxygen
pouring down
like honey.
Water leapt from his heart,
flooded his blue,
nourished
his soul
and the grass.
A release on the ground.
A release in the sky.
Two powers
surging—
electricity
between earth and heaven.
A man lay dying in a field
until
he decided
not
to
die.
Instead, he laughed.
He writhed in pain
and howled at the stains of grass
on his pants.
When laughter ceased,
the loss,
the pain,
the breathless grief
rose like smoke
and fled into the clouds.
Mystery swirled,
a ghost swinging from the moon.
The living man stood,
said goodbye to the end
and hello
to the new.
© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2016
Poem: Unassembled
This painting by Ruprecht von Kaufmann fascinates me. It leaves the impression that the human figure has been disassembled and placed back into the room without its center.
Rolling thunder—
Sounds like rattling bones
In a makeshift
Barrel
Traveling over uneven bricks—
Coursing through the sky
Varied gradations of height
First loosening the moon
With percussive vibration
Then shaking
Newly budding leaves
Velvet green
From yawning trees
Barely awake.
Scattered light—
Looks like fingers
Flicking away all that flies
Stretching across and
Opening wide
Then curling back inside
A fist pulsating
Currents through the air
Bringing light to where
Shadows live
But only one
Moment at a time
Slowly and
Without warning.
Water pouring—
Tastes like a child’s tears
Hot and heavy
Filled with reflections
Of all that surrounds
But void of understanding,
Simple
Pure
Enveloping the landscape
In a pool of
White
A mirror to the sky
With no pondering of why
Only what.
As above the tempest
So below
The raging gusts of natural disaster
If love be called natural,
If the heart enrapt
In upward gales
And stripped from its
Cavity
Be called disaster—
Stripped, that is,
By freshly painted
Nails of red
Tossed and then released
Into the atmosphere.
And then, stillness invades—
Feels like bated breath
Unwilling to climb
Rungs of the rib cage
Or slip past the tongue
Of one whose
Voice must not be known
Hidden in silence—
No more masking
Than that—
Only quiet
Enshrouding some figure
Crawling past and almost
Out of sight.
Inside the stillness he sits
Shoulders slumped and heavy
Something feels different
(Reality varied)
An inventory begins—
He lifts his hand
To count all his parts
First his legs, yes
Then confirming his arms,
All accounted, yet
Discerning something amiss
His eyes move and
Focus inside
Where the hole was dug.
“My heart,” he panicked
“I am sure this is the space
where once it sat.”
Groping further down
Through his mouth
As though, perhaps
It slid
Descending
Sloshing now in acid—
His fingers reaching
He gags and chokes
Hoping to find it
Inside the vomit
But still he is without.
Coalescence deprived
Nothing more to bind
His pieces together
Like glue or like chains
Wrapping around
And pulling down
To anchor—
Now adrift on the sea
Of humanity
Only he
And his leftover parts
No longer a whole
He floats atop the foam
Like a corpse.
There is a thing that happens
In the mind
Between loss
And understanding—
A vacuum
An unhanding
Of reason
Disillusionment invades
It cascades
And splashes into pools
Of paralysis
Then sinks into rebellion
Before it hits the bottom of
Despondent and
Swirls with caustic deviation.
“Parts for sale,”
He spouts like a madman
From sunrise until
Dusk sits like a spy
On the edge of the moon
Waiting for its chance to fall—
“Pieces for sale,
gently used
never abused
no longer needed
the price is low
everything must go
no credit
only cash.”
The people pass
They point but do not laugh
Sympathy cloaks their eyes
They try to disguise the sadness
And yet,
“I see it there,” he scoffs—
“Do not pity
I have no heart
through which
to feel the pain,
sometimes in life this happens
there is no shame.”
He chops—
“Here, have a leg.”
Then, one passes close
Carrying a bag
Filled with hope.
The sitting man
Raises his hand to ask,
“Soon I will be dead
my last drops bled
with no chance
to renew.
My heart, you see,
was taken from me
and I wonder if
hope can be fastened
to one with no pulse?”
His hurried steps
Do not delay
From the corner of his mouth
He sighs to say,
“I have my heart
inside this bag
with some hope besides
but I tell you true
unless it beats,
an endless repeat,
there is nothing
this spark can do
for you.”
The passing man passes.
The sitting man
Beholds one flicker of hope
Flaming on the ground
He imagines hobbling toward
Leaping forward
But instead
He watches it burn—
Yellow to dark
And then
One line of smoke
Stretches, back curled
Like a cat
Being lifted from the center.
© Jill Szoo Wilson
Photo credit: My dear friend and German artist Ruprecht von Kaufmann, Die Sache mit den Sirenen 2014.
Jill Szoo Wilson 