Wish we were as patient as my car.
To drive four hundred miles not
needing to stop. To go seven hours
over grayscale roads and want
to talk to you still after.
We drove a long way but got
stranded on the side of
a southern highway, scared
from too many October horror films,
from lasting even this long.
(originally published in CircleShow, Summer 2017)
fungus grows on the lips
of a cordless mouse
and seeks a kiss or two
clicks to connect void
into void and absence
warps into a fray
of spit and sweat
this LED lover
covered in fingerprints
and dust here we crawl
on tousled bedsheet toward
an open window in view
of eucalyptus and jacaranda
(originally published in The Good Men Project, Fall 2017)
eighty degrees
in the second month
of our favorite season
and we bake apples
until the kitchen
smells of wax
and cinnamon
with gloves
we twist
out black bulbs
to replace our summer
clothes
despite the lingering
heat
(originally published in Raw Dog Press, Summer 2017)
In those formative years,
we had to sneak to bed,
wait for morning’s slow sprout.
We grew separated
by spade, soft
as mush, new spuds
underground, and emerged
rough-peeled in the other’s palm,
became those rough ovate shapes
we’ve come to recognize
as something good,
not good for you,
but nonetheless
a staple of
a balanced diet.
(originally published in The Icarus Anthology, Summer 2017)
Your mud. Here,
we count days.
We walked Santa Monica
to the ocean. There, we removed
our shoes. Held them
by spines to dip
our feet. I love where
we have been. The more we walk,
the less we know. Either way it ends
yet the water takes
and takes, and by the door
we wait.
(originally published in Northampton Poetry Review, Summer 2017)
Walking over paved bricks
under sunlight in January,
it is quiet enough
to hear the earth shiver
from her breath, far
from the Los Angeles heat
I grew used to– a hundred
police cars wailing down
Vermont past blurs
of fleeting sidewalks,
boarded-up businesses
adorned in graffiti,
and dead black bags
full of not-Autumn
leaves.
(originally published in Home Planet News Online, 2017)
The bowl is where
the howls come from–
OoOoOoOoO!
A broken-record werewolf
in this microwave-boiled,
tomato-red September.
I have been trying to form
the words to say to you
with only a vowel.
When you left
for some knockoff white-hat,
greasy Chef Boyardee
I went to the zoo
to study manatees,
but they, too, are a migratory
species. I saw the first of its kind
take on a mangrove but emerge
fish-in-mouth. She floated to her
friend or brother or lover
and squealed syllables
until the other swam away.
I guess no one communicates
with each other the proper way
anymore. All these sounds
these OOOs and Os
processed uneaten
(originally published in The Oddville Press, Spring 2018)
The sand is sung
until a throat bleeds
and camels walk
the blank space
of a desert song:
animals streaking
the whole long day
to share an oasis
with you.
(originally published in Picaroon Poetry, Summer 2017)
Since I first saw your face
shine from a stage and again
in desert sun and through cool,
desert night, you always felt right.
We are soaked now in swimming
pools and sands pooled near
the coastline’s swaying smile
that thrums for us; and here,
water kissing submerged feet
anchored in each other.
(originally published in Eunoia Review, Winter 2017)