Your laugh could knock civilization out
but you are too modest.
I spent time at the cafeteria alone
at school. Red trays quivered.
On film sets I can’t look up.
How tight is the lighting rig?
When I apply that logic
to our place in the universe–
it’s too cold a stone to live alone.
When your soundwaves reach me,
in my solace, from the moon
or Mars or Mars, Pennsylvania,
I want my life to begin again
and I want you there
the whole time.
(originally published in Ephemeral Elegies, Spring 2023)
The only photograph of us we ever took was
at Thursday’s Lounge, on an ancient phone from
ten years ago. Your boyfriend at the time snapped
us, smiling, in front of the liquor selection. Neither
of us realized it would be years until the next time
we would meet again. Since then, I have acquired
a mountain of phones, piled somewhere in storage.
And while I want to find this picture for some kind
of momentary joy, I cannot hope to find one such
antiquity in a landfill of antiquities. I know the
memory has become warped, muted, fuzzy.
Since I’ve seen you, we have both compiled a
mountain of loves, relics embedded within
ourselves. The brain’s complicated wirings–
circuitry functioning enough to remind me
we were, briefly, more than a photograph.
(originally published in AvantAppal(achia), Spring 2023)
Each night after work I leap
to new conclusions the chatter
of the world consumes me
I watch who I wanted to be
years ago materialize in the music
of passing cars some deep ache
slows in my chest I need
to relax my shoulders I am not
giving my life to the clock
now people return
to my street I need
to go inside and hide
(originally published in First Literary Review-East, Summer 2023)
People ask you to make an
idea out of something you do
and they say it so casually
you don’t get what it is
they are asking for.
(originally published in children, churches, and daddies, Winter 2023)
I ask when kissing
our cat does this
make you jealous?
Not because it is
my mission. Today
marks shedding
season the first
day of spring.
Dry lips coated
with fur because
winter was long
and tomorrow
we will be new.
(originally published in DoubleSpeak Magazine, Summer 2023)
the offense was claws in which I tore
the seams of treaded jeans we admired
of hornbills suspended in the space
between freedom and constriction
and contrails the zest of the situation
lingered in halves the happening and aftermath
a baptismal drizzle of your departing hatchback
entirely left to the discretion of satellites
(originally published in Academy of the Heart and Mind, Spring 2023)
There is a picture of you standing
in a blue IKEA bag in the chapter
room because we wanted to find God,
me and Jack and Chris. That led us
to IKEA in Robinson, Pennsylvania
and I knew not to fall asleep
in your car but I did anyway. We
were toying with the brand new
Garmin. We knew the route it wanted
us to take was not the best but
we took it anyway because technology.
I wasn’t the one who was going to tell
the lady who locked us in the parking
garage we got stuck in that we needed
to be let out. You did, and I have the
picture in my memory of you telling
her. I wish I remembered the words.
(originally published in *82 Review, Fall 2022)
gonna be a good dive
pink windmills spin forever
I thanked you already
I am always thanking you
consider this next apology all ready
dizzy heights
I’ll file in the hi Sara folder
maybe I will choose to drop
down to blue under-surface
where everyone’s at I miss that
you mean I’m supposed to grab a tail
with these conveyor belts & keep it
I don’t know my role
but the walls
have googly eyes & I don’t mean
the stampede at the checkered line
these same damn races every time
I’ve never watched the procession after me
don’t worry you haven’t done anything wrong
yet
the situation’s complicated
continue
(originally published in One, Fall 2022)
When you can’t leave for the forest–
bloomed flower petals on white tile
by the toilet rug. Black comb bleach
cleaner. A tendril reaches from water
glass, vine lights looming. What for
but pale wall? Crystal window. Self-
haircut grass. Small room. Small
ambition. I track my movements.
My hunter is somewhere, hiding.
(originally published in Sybil Journal, Summer 2023)
you said the first time I picked you up
on our way to a family-style dinner &
then we drove through curvy hills I am
not yet comfortable with, the darkness
now so fitting.
I came empty-
handed, I didn’t want to drink
too much then drive you home. &
we didn’t know anyone who’d be
at our table but you’re better with
strangers. The restaurant was on
a corner facing a bus stop, &
people watched as I drove doughnuts
around the dual-railroad tracks
adjacent, seeking a place to park
not marked by sign or road decay.
I wanted to talk to you more
about anything, but you opened
my driver door
& walked me in.
(originally published in Words & Whispers, Winter 2023)