after a while a magic occurs
blooming splashes the windowsill
creates a rainbow to heal what ails
the will its green misery sprouted
along peach-painted walls its
roots will take hold turn wilted
petal into mast on a boat of dirt
(originally published in CommuterLit, Winter 2021)
trying to keep you out of my mind in my room with the
locked door this too will wash away colors sacred I’d
dip my fingers in hiding holy underneath I promised
to take your cracked heart in mine I am not removed
from broken foundation the columns & wild dark
above all my art I just want you in my arms
(originally published in Alternate Route, Spring 2023)
The sun shines on my goddamn sunflower teeth.
Thankful my dental appointment was rescheduled
to an indeterminate point for future me (who is
that crooked reflection in the mirror? Relieved
to see bad posture alive and well) to compensate
for. When I graduated college, I fell in love
at the slightest touch– autumn leaves floating
in a pond, the draft of winter wind through
the window. Now I’m older and more ragged
(the other day I tossed a rug with a painting
of a lion so I could replace it with speckled
blue) and, certainly, with so much heat death
to look forward to.
(originally published in The Broadkill Review, Summer 2021)
My hand gentle on the vibration of DQ’s back.
We ascribe memories to animals. Anthropomorphism
is our system. Kingsford’s scent lies on fewer and fewer
surfaces– we vacuumed his hairs, changed the covers
this August of grieving, and in bed we say
the living one dreams of her human family. If ever
there was a before in this cat’s life, if ever she could
recant her past to us– what I hate about the cage is
not the sick animal inside it, but that I can’t explain
where we are going, or why, just he needs to trust
me, beyond all his mewling (we pass a fish truck
on Penn Avenue in sunlight) – trust me: where
we are going will end your suffering.
(originally published in Kalopsia Lit, Spring 2022)
I don’t know how to help.
I have been in my house,
mouth shut, for months
and months and
when I speak, it is the wrong
thing, so I apologize
for everything. Mostly I am sorry
I didn’t burn the station
first.
(originally published in Subterranean Blue Poetry, Fall 2020)
Here’s a pony you don’t like.
This time, I’m holding you
and telling you the truth about
how, at camp, you fell into a
ditch of clay and nearly
trampled to donate– you
thought– to the afterlife a fly
on a turkey carcass. Life is
full, a morbid castle–
a bird plunked in traffic,
an idea of being able
to survive atop the hood.
Your sister split the life
into more than a half,
a divorce from life and
tenant. The cost was
the roof, and you paid
someone to fix it, as
loyal as you are
to the world, soap-
scum coating it. Please
forgive yourself. I thought
you were a legend. Please,
never step toward the rail.
(originally published in Divot, Spring 2023)
walking around my home wearing sun
glasses FitBit records silent steps on white
wood floors creak a silver SUV whirs past
window no peephole a dead end slightly
darker shade how my eyes reckon
in multiple lights their very veins
stretch and pulsate spectrum my entire
field ever present ever pressured
the world in layers I perceive body
as hunger pushing into all frames
of frames of knick-knacks I need to
donate but fear the gift-givers will find out
one may ask that yodeling pickle wasn’t
good enough of course not what was ever
its purpose but to transfer to another hand
or be buried deep in dry and dying land
(originally published in Academy of the Heart and Mind, Spring 2023)
I don’t want you
here. The void is avoid.
Sun a bright November forty
seven ride. When I was last
depressed I drowned myself
in Tito’s. This was a gift
from you. You won’t
be there, but I want you
there.
(originally published in Ink Pantry, Winter 2022)
I bang my head all day– understand,
the end is not an option until I run out
of time (I am limitless until the zipper
closes, so to speak, an asphyxiation of a plastic
bag, its crinkle and shimmer under kitchen light). New
home but I do not yet know how to live
in it. Such few hours
inside. I used to push
my palms against fresh paint until my hands were
red, a deadening so expected I could pass through
and bereave the light that emerged
from its center, gushy and dim, how I would press
my thumb to its heart and play its saxophone’s minor
note, the bed I’d sleep in and wake
in the night on rumbling tracks.
(originally published in Eunoia Review, Fall 2023)
We made Arrested Development-esque chicken imitations
at the restaurant– bakawk, cheep-cheep, wakka wakka–
being young, I thought that was the language of love.
We always laughed across the chasm of the room
when we shut shop, squeezing soap rags into heart buckets,
wiping fresh clear streaks on mahogany tables. I vacuumed
pita crumbs and invisible dust, emptied bags thinking,
perhaps, I was on the verge of vanquishing loneliness,
that I was sprinkling zaatar on a plate of foggy shish
tawook, a taste you might return to.
(originally published in Vagabond City Lit, Spring 2023)