I left your place with nothing
to say to the paper skeleton
hanging on your door. Walked
the street in old, browned
loafers to meet other friends,
no celebrations to celebrate.
Your birthdays always pass
without fanfare. I see ribbons
in you when you do not.
Candles, cake, club
music. Striating lights
to spotlight, embrace,
then the world– its
countless, colorful
ribbons– would spin
around us, give you this.
(originally published in Across the Margin, Summer 2020)
All this nesting leaves me
exhausted. When you awaken
I am too tired to live. One day
the hawk will know this. Sunrise,
the same tender air of earth to feed
new omens. The day a hill
between thunderstorms and ruddy
sunsets, with water neither
ephemeral nor potable.
Quartz trembles and falls
into my mouth. Words
say whatever is in them;
they always fall. A cowbird
on a branch sends out her scent.
(I realize these rocks are symbolic,
a character for which a metaphor
has never been written.) My nest
surrounded by stones has come
to speak in ways that neither
of us can hear. The nest is not
a cage, yet the absence of
a nest is also not a cage.
Inside whichever– I
know you have loved me.
(originally published in Capsule Stories, Summer 2021)
were supposed to have fountains
not just in Santa Clarita, but
in Akron, too, a missed
moment against a brick wall
of self the undermined
understanding of art
versus creator, physical
creation versus memory
music I sang to create
a sentiment of dust
(originally published in EgoPHobia, Summer 2021)
I saw you meditating
in the UPM’s office shades pulled
lotus on speckled carpet
you caught me wondering
if you were tranquil I felt terrible
though the door was open I was
an arrow piercing peace
that single moment I don’t know
if you ever think about it
your spotting my gaze lasted one
second at most my mind runs
reruns just tell me you’ve forgotten
in the chaos of casting hundreds
of extras for a scene canceled
by sudden rain
(originally published in The Broadkill Review, Summer 2021)