When lightning strikes a distant tree
I lift my hands from the steering wheel.
Hail knocks on the windshield–
a desperate stranger. Curled in fleece,
I hide behind windows, the past
a gathering flood until the sun
bares terrible fangs
of clarity and renewal.
(originally published in Rust + Moth, Autumn 2018)
Write what
you know,
they say.
From graduating
college, I learned
how to survive
bars
then crashed
into Mom’s
garage drunk
with the GPA of
zero-point-oh-to-
be-young-again-
oh-Lord-oh-my-
oh-fuck
(originally published in SOFT CARTEL, 2018)
As I waited for my burger at Northstar
I saw they had copies of The Bitter Oleander,
and on the first page was the work
of my first poetry professor.
Buzzing on metaphor,
I sent an email to tell her
that they’ve also published me before
but it has been a couple of years.
She told me
to sleep it off.
(originally published in EgoPHobia, Spring 2018)
It’s true–
every instance
I want to jump your bones.
Skeleton dancing
alive with every
touch: hand on
collarbone, fingers
on wrist, lips
on steamed hair
and you tell me
I’m doing that thing
again, calling you pretty
when half your hair’s curly,
the other half straight and
I tell you I mean it
like when I watch you
in the mirror bring hot iron
to hair and I mean it
like when I kiss you
steam leaves our lips,
a collision of curves
into flat plane open
and infinite where
only we exist.
(originally published in The Sunlight Press, 2018)
sometimes who you love
is anticipation thus you wave
at forecasts flail at clouds
hands defying gravity you
drop-down dance someone
into your heart
(originally published in Botticelli Magazine, Spring 2018)
Easy you observe the brimstone gold
plated on a perch and the gulls above
broadcast O ye airwaves message
static
this white noise raging in the country
someone forgot
the clamor in the background of the FM radio
(originally published in New Pop Lit, Spring 2018)
When I was homeless, I snuck into gyms.
Browned shower floors with footprints.
A rose inside curtains’ slow steam,
I became an endless bloom,
tongue lapping the head.
(originally published in Pidgeonholes, Spring 2018)
pink cube of lukewarm touch
crumbs a trail to what end
these futuristic forever years
longing for
sugar
consume each day
then close
(originally published in #theslideshow, Winter 2018)
& you weep on the phone
asking what’s wrong
typically nothing
nothing I say
water patters
to puddle
the white noise
needed for sleep
(originally published in Rosette Malificarum, Winter 2018)