Griffiths is widely known for her literary portraits, fine art photography, and lyric videos. Her extensive video project, P.O.P (Poets on Poetry), an intimate series of micro-interviews, gathers nearly 100 contemporary poets in conversation, and is featured online by the Academy of American Poets.

And (I want to argue) maybe my dead died quick for a material reason. / Maybe they went up like a forest fire from dry tinder in their heartwood: / a thin artery wall easily blasted by that lightning stroke, / a brain alight and bleeding out, / then invisible crematorium fire

on the shore / she gave birth, a Japanese soldier / stabled her with his horse. carved / teeth into dice. if they landed even /   a woman was shot. odd / & rape instead. sometimes / death can wait for a man to open his pants.

The woman with a not quite toddler on her hip weaves at a loom. / She is full of is and she is standing. How she weaves with one hand is / a mystery, even to her. But it has something to do with bone / straightness of her back.

a turtled neck for the times   i have been afraid     to stick one out for them  /   minding my own business the occasional pardon when i have not

I saw a seraph sitting outside the coffee shop / drinking a latte with a double shot / eyes like busted headlights, / wings of baby's breath and barbed wire. / He was Facetiming his lover / telling him about the blood between his thighs / and picking at the mothballs on his sweater.

It’s the pollution of a freezing temple basement air by voices in intonation with their caste and the odor of garam masala. It’s the Dental Hygienist placing the gurgling rod suctioning my saliva into my mouth when my jaw is too busy running through the same prayer before shloka practice. It’s being a single cell in tissue of bruised skin..