In your dream you murdered me.
I am just happy you dreamt of me.
Carried chopped pieces
of me in your tote bag, hid me
under your sink among the grocery
bags and water stains. In the second
half of your dream, you said
I got out from under the sink
and said I got you! And I always
will, pieces of you I carry
with me, your proverbial
heart in mine, your eyes
locked in mine, your
subconscious wrestling
our not-so-tiny distance,
where when I moved
I thought you’d never think
of me, that what you’d carry
was the end, the sloppy end
with the broken bones,
the cut-up conversations,
the disjointed hugs in
summer heat, the space
we loved to share, daylight
hours a cool shade
of blue, a shield
in which we wished
for our shadows
to never escape
or at least hold
the other’s fading
light. I never want
to be surprised
when our paths
cross next in life,
how I miss the days
you’d inhabit all my
dreams, days,
the whole field
and the entirety
beyond.
(originally published in The Pierian, Fall 2024)
Scrub
the provision
the carcass
provision
the carcass
a carcass
to provide
the carcass
blaze
(originally published in Roi Fainéant, Fall 2023)
Operatic Pop
I have lived enough to knife
through precious indifference:
time to say goodbye, sang
Andrea Bocelli through my
childhood’s echoing eardrums,
banging through the baseball
game of stressful situations.
How I overcame my fear
of public speaking was when
I was believed in, once,
to deliver Wayne’s wedding
from obliteration (green
in the cleaved landscapes
I scampered fully across)
and the contentment rings
high in vibrato today.
(originally published in Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Fall 2023)
The Dog Is Always Greener
the dog is always
greener
in the land of
pleasant living
if we could pour
our hands
over the promise
of fence
into wild dandelion
weeds of
contentment
on a fake summer
day
the reticent
dog is the one
to pet
not the meme
celebrity
husky
or perhaps
we want
to live again
in the way
that dogs do
refreshing
the page
every fourteen
seconds
or days or
years
the grandma
calls this celebration
of life a resort
and we call
the dealer’s hand
too forgetful
to recall
the spade
drafted in
the lush
unkempt
garden
shuffle
the cards
repeatedly
to delay
the inevitable
(originally published in Pinhole Poetry, Fall 2023)
Proximity
The closest I will ever be
to the moon is on this plane
over Charlotte, returning
from my cousin’s wedding
in Huntsville, Alabama.
Face pressed against
the window I overlook
the wing where light
reflects off wing– a
certain curved angle
makes two moons.
Earlier, the sunset
was rust. This morning,
we had brunch
at The Broken
Egg, my distant family
sat across the
table from me,
the length
of a Filipino flag,
the closest
we will ever be.
(originally published in The Round, Spring 2025)
Holiday Politics
If God is
thine god
let my country
be mine
I don’t
want
to
invade
anywhere
you don’t belong
if hunger be
a gift let it eat
my own heart
right through
the wrapping
(originally published in Delta Poetry Review, Summer 2025)
Our Ritual
I kiss the cheek of my cat
she hums in her sputtering
engine the comfort
of our ritual she twitches
on my chest stares
deep into my eyes
our noses
sniffing
each other
truth is
her teeth
reek of yesterday
but I am trying
to rid myself
of the past
year
(originally published in The Gorko Gazette, Summer 2024)
The Shrubs of Doubt Were Misplaced
Still, the dogs watch me from behind
a fence when I walk the opposite route–
against traffic on Gross Street–
the view changes enough to convince
me I am in a different place in my life
with its industrial constellations,
a parking garage sparkling with hovering
hospital lights while skeleton neighbors
decorate homes for Halloween and blue
jays all seek a different weather. Maybe
October chill has knocked a new belief
into my teeth. Brick by brick I walk
by buildings of my past that survived
into the current, too, and a leaf
from an unseen tree floats
onto the chest of my charcoal
jacket. I pin it there
for the days I will forget.
(originally published in Ariel Chart, Spring 2024)
Please Don’t Come Home
we need not gather
rice in the trash sticky
with friends’ hands
still friends their hands
a question of what we collect
these rakes our long limbs
(originally published in Penmen Review, 2025)
Relief
This
gorgeous
day! I leave
my office to
join my lively colleagues– quick silence. Tense.
I say nothing, leave, and receive a text:
it wasn’t you–
PHEW– but our
buzzkill,
Will.
(originally published in Chewers by Masticadores, Summer 2024)