a red serpent lives inside me
keeping venom in my blood
and I don’t mean this as a sin
or shame but rather a reality
like toxins in the grass and
in the fruit we eat, everywhere
everywhere silent killers lurking
in the stems of tomatoes growing
rapidly, the chemicals in me
and in your child, oh god,
there’s a serpent in your child
and if we yank it from his throat
our serpents will bite and bite
until we forget the garden
(originally published in The Beatnik Cowboy, Winter 2024)
Oblivious to the approaching hard-
ships of the road, the sleeping leaves
with years of nourishment wake
with you in your mom’s backyard,
under dark sky and pine boughs.
Those autumn days the wind blew,
singing, but remembering the song
has become too loud. Place your palm
against the bark to soften its voice, cease
the rustling. Come inside now. Walk
through your memories like in a dream.
(originally published in EAP: The Magazine, Summer 2023)
I had my arm looped around your shoulder
at Zub’s always thinking of infinity inside
gooey strands of fried mac and cheese bites–
now I’m thirty-four, scared of heart failure.
I stand at my desk at work on a foam pad
with bumps and ridges. Anything to keep
me active, though I read Bruce Lee died
at thirty-two. I don’t know how I did not
know that until now. If ignorance can be
counted in the days I have forgotten, my
respite won’t be remembered. Perhaps the
paper clips that stab memories together
aren’t so horribly misspoken, though I
speak without stopping more than I used to.
The highway through my windshield grime–
at night, when it’s raining– everything is
chance, or I need better glasses, or escape.
I look ahead and forget all that is behind
me, inconsiderate to the rearview lights
who are trying to guide me home.
(originally published in ZiN Daily, Winter 2024)
Threads dangle off the sweater
I’ve worn forever, blue
and purple billows all across
my torso. I can’t just throw
away this salvaged dollar
from a Goodwill. A cloth
can sheath itself on the body
and glide forever, walking
toward an inevitable unknown
destination. The distance is empty
space, jammed with ubiquitous
sound. I will sew none of it.
(originally published in Live Nude Poems, Fall 2024)
we pretend to know
tomorrow
that we don’t
is both the plight
and light
in living
each day
a slow burning
candle
that dies
inside
the next
(originally published in impspired, Summer 2023)