before you
moved
to Chicago
we lit a flame
with bugspray
loud as strangers
but the bonfire
burning out back
is your voice
haunting
the smoke
in this house
(originally published in Goat’s Milk Magazine, Spring 2020)
Month: May 2023
Two Weeks
Like yesterday, I say
I won’t leave the house for
spinach seeds. We have to
make with what we have.
I’m listening to Grizzly Bear,
like yesterday. I say
my favorite song is Two Weeks–
eighth-note piano ends for vocals.
I won’t leave the house for,
at best, two weeks after. But
I can’t live on only singing.
Spinach seeds. We have to.
(originally published in Gingerbread Ritual Literary Journal, Winter 2022)
Bong
we forget to water the plants our parents
entrusted us with all the petals wither
when we start but the whole time we just fill
our environment with smoke and bubbling water
until the slopes arrive and such is ubiquitous hunger
Cheez-Its and Doritos the salt in the carpet
is saturated and green we better
vacuum or eat all the crumbs
(originally published in Phenomenal Literature, Fall 2020)
Rugby
on television are beefy men
staring each other down
the camera zooms on one he
blows his snot onto the green
grass a quiet meteor my friends
and I see that half-drunk at
the tavern then proceed to
agree we are too anxious
to blow our nose with one
thousand people watching
I guess it’s just testosterone,
man, the comparisons of
muscles and tendons without
the tenderness of inward
reflection, a pool rippling
out from the inside then
pouring out over the field
(originally published in Impspired, Spring 2020)