Ceiling leaks on mahogany plate–
nowhere for rain. The cat self-
cleans beside treble clef legs.
Roomba learns the floor’s secrets.
Purple grape stems. Vent dust
from the void. I left you a voicemail
on a no outlet road. I read a few pages
tonight. Shower steam dissipates
slowly into starlight.
(originally published in Bindweed Magazine, Summer 2021)
Driving home from work tonight
on half-constructed roads, wet
with already-drying rain, ahead
of me a brown truck darts through
two busy lanes to get on his way.
How deerlike, I think, and
nothing more of it, until I’m
at a stoplight with unusual traffic,
and people congregate on sidewalks,
where there was recently emptiness,
a dread in the air, like construction
on these familiar streets that started
happening just outside of awareness.
A blue basketball rolls briskly in front
of my car, and two boys scream in
the silence of my Spotify, and I
wonder if I should pull over to
return the ball safely but I just drive
by and glance into the rearview mirror,
where one of them sprints from his yard
to his neighbor’s, through the converging
traffic, and I just try not to think
about it as I round the corner.
(originally published in Thirteen Myna Birds, Winter 2022)
If I tried to count how many nights I’ve wandered
alone to find myself, it would be on more fingers
than all my family has. If I were worried
only about eyes on walks stalking me–
if I hadn’t watched The Lion
King at seven, and my father hadn’t died,
and my brother– I wouldn’t be present
in this field of wild cleavers with my Mufasas
whispering weeds in the moonlight. Always
that breeze tickling the hairs across
my skin. That’s why I don’t walk
barefoot in the grass– I don’t trust strangers’
hands, so I count tendrils on everything green
in the dark that’s growing, wondering
if you remember how long it took
for me to learn to tie my shoes. The laces
multiplied in my field of math
I fumbled over. My hands, I could
never be precise enough to be
a mechanic, or a surgeon.
We were in the basement and
oh, you were so patient,
television glowing and muted. Dark
news and wave band static. These
negative film reels roll to nights
embedded in memory when I try
to sleep, when my lids are full
of images. I can’t believe I’ve stared
at the surface of the moon so many nights
over the years and just now saw
there is your face. My face.
(originally published in Hello America Stereo Cassette, Spring 2021)
I didn’t
give you
the flu
but everyone
around me
has it:
roommates
my partner
my mother
my partner’s mother
and the nurse
practitioner
gave me
the vaccine
pricked my arm
with a needle
and forgot
about it
let me out
into the world
with a tinge
of pain
and swelling
fever
to battle
the world’s
sickness
(originally published in North Dakota Quarterly, Summer 2020)