I bet you have
a mansion. You sell
land at true
cost– blood-
soaked
beasts,
all the kingdom
in your pocket,
the precious
metals
polished
at your feet,
hungry stars needing
forever
more. I wish
that for you– my hunger
tastes of bitter
rosemary,
the dreams
of a plot
go on through
the storm.
(originally published in Trigger Warning Magazine, Winter 2025)
So, you caught
me dozing.
Our bed a compass
without direction.
We buy a home
we say will wrench
us from the dredges
we have been stuck
in, the blue head-
lights pointing up,
forever, the language
of our love.
(originally published in Bindweed Magazine, Summer 2023)
This fork in history could veer
wildly left, though the bus driver
announces he forgot his glasses
at home but memorized the route.
Don’t worry, I have been this way
before and before and whatever
obstacles you see before me
and before you belong in just
those places in the long telescope
observing the passage of time
(originally published in Linked Verse, Summer 2023)
I am done with dating
apps. I would like to make
you dinner: salmon, rice,
brussels sprouts. You said
you know what I want
for my birthday over a bed
of nigiri and leaves. I rolled
sushi once in a cavern
of doubt. I couldn’t stop
shaking. The nervousness–
I mean, the lust– grew
on your vines by
your side door.
We had your home
re-keyed, then there was
trouble with the locks.
Couldn’t keep the lovers out.
(originally posted in Discretionary Love, 2025)
I’m no fan of gore
nor button mashers,
but when you speak to me
as if from pixelated reality
get over here and finish
me, I equip my knit cap
and fight sub-zero temperatures
to be under sheets with you
in all the fatalities
of the heart. We die
many times in each
other’s arms
inputting
the proper combinations.
We are reckless
when we love– we attack,
we defend, I watch
the blood flush out of us
asking if you will love me
always. When that lands,
I’m finished.
(originally published in Stickman Review, Fall 2023)
If someone jumped I’d jump
into the warm whatever of mid-
May
I’d not leap as the
maneuver’s overused– I understand
these liminal expectations from
poetry
if I haven’t quite mastered
the rudimentary mechanics
of swimming. I am the sediment
from a different continent rising
to you as loam scraping against
sand. You said wave, I said wind.
The red tide carried us. Whatever.
We ended at Point B. The alternate
universe if you’d call it that.
But I said the stop sign.
I said all kinds of things
as you drove through
ocean construction.
(originally published in Roi Faneant, Fall 2023)
And my eyeballs
are on fire.
I used to like the sound
of a brush in flames,
and this is the same
thing. The burning
beneath me,
molten soil.
Running is my prerogative,
but my heart has to be
a certain way,
not not.
(originally published in Monologging, Winter 2024)
shielded from torrential downpour I count each privilege
in the rain the mailman with the bad knee runs up our
stairs to deliver corporate marketing I sit in my
comfort watching heavy mist float float off the parked
cars and wonder as the sidewalk’s sea level
rises is this a flash flood? then it lets up when it
resumes intensity I wonder if this is hurricane weather
this is Pittsburgh this is no hurricane though Laura
makes her journey up the Gulf Coast another storm in
a sky of storms I observe seemingly unlimited
(originally published in Poetica, Spring 2024)
I am shirtless. I am thirsty.
I drink an eternity
from my full glass of water
while my two friends kiss.
In the old house. The kitchen
with the steel island
I had lifted my glass
from. New lovers!
I stand
by the sink
filling my glass,
over and over
again, the faucet
a waterfall,
bountiful,
something like love–
it quenches,
but you must keep filling.
(originally published in BlazeVOX, Spring 2024)
I could be walking
on water down
the beach minding
my own business
a heron Jesus
and still at the splash
of your all
encompassing wingspan
I would not know
the difference
between a wave
and awash
(originally published in Avalon Literary Review, Summer 2024)