the dead friend you are thinking of
says the sky’s no longer the limit
inside there are good spaces
between us you wanna press
the green button on your existence.
that is what he would have wanted:
to arrive. one day you will awaken
barefoot under a leafy blanket
in your dress shirt & blue tie
and he will live inside your eyes
the way ants share summer
crumbs
(originally published in indicia lit, Summer 2022)
It was so quiet
you could hear cows
walking on mud
pigs chewing wheat.
For a moment I wanted
as a souvenir
the certain stillness
of winter trees
of nearly everything–
but the cloud began
its parting, its rising–
smoke out the barrel
of a gun, aiming at you
an open door,
begging you to hide.
(originally published in Impspired, Fall 2021)
I do I deaden them walking
I talk them alive in the spit
of my thoughts specks of
gravel in my brown leather
Clarks not made for distance
I say to a neighbor hello
and that’s it before I leave
for another neighborhood
Friendship park you can
move in loops and loops
around the brownish green
in view of hospital whose
restroom I use no one cares
what I do everyone is sick
I don’t care I am too my legs
burn with lethargy though
there are days I want to yell
at dogs who do nothing
wrong I want the freedom
to lick sandpaper barks
of trees and keep a butterfly
between my teeth until
something inside me says
feast or let go
(originally published in Northwest Indiana Literary Journal, Spring 2020)
I talk about the moon
as if it’s cute but IT’S NOT
cuter than anything
sometimes I think I’m
cuter than the moon but
I’M NOT
(originally published in The Literary Yard, Spring 2020)