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)
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)
At her Penn Hills home an endless view
of rain green wide windows. With sink hot
faucet water we tear banana leaf a piece
of wallpaper press the masa they prepped
into dried dark a sturdy table.
Drop sauce, fork pork, wrap ribbon
makes pride and we learn to live
again. Almost a year still fresh
the big bowl of dead animal we gather
around. Andrea says steam in leaf
adds floral flavor, a life
to death jiggling within us–
oh, sweet touch of camaraderie,
hugs on a late December
Saturday. You were afraid
we started the day too early, but
we are in our mid-thirties. I wanted
to begin yesterday the festivities
that let us remember why we
remain alive– brown butter cookies
and the love, so much love in the living
room. When we get to the presents–
having already unwrapped our proud
banana leaves, there are Penguin
classics, band t-shirts, soy candles
but what we’d trade for anything–
white elephant– is more time.
(originally published in Triggerfish Critical Review, Summer 2024)
the crows are stage left with nails in their beaks
it took centuries for modern civilization to collapse
but it is happening now and we are all here for it
looking toward the future (naïve to hold a telescope)
I see ants collapsed just outside a giant mound of
peanut butter powder coated in poison we were
feeding ourselves (and we fed so long) with words
and power with which we chose to destroy ourselves
and we are all here for it drowning in the rising seas
(originally published in Flights, Fall 2023)
I crack– then leak–
always expecting honey,
hummingbird, candy. Look–
I want to be with you
in health and heartache. But
I know the sorrow that eats me,
I see my eyes, and you, the one
who loves them– in countless
shades– you ask me to keep.
(originally published in Ariel Chart, Spring 2024)
I am begging for you to be well.
At Spirit in Lawrenceville.
Lung cancer
I can’t
stand this for you. I
love you enough to know
this world
is too crowded without
you & me standing
around, heads bobbing,
at another live show
at a smoky dive bar,
asking each other
what we want next
& how much more
dearly in this life can
we stand to lose?
(originally published in Ink Pantry, 2025)
eyes close, a portal opens
to rain, silent homes / shields for
the wet and yearning. . . escape, enter, in
speckled ceiling light, visions of rice
and effervescent soaking / murk
in nonchalance, the 21st century–
has it ever been different?
(originally published in Poetry Super Highway, Fall 2024)
The world
is a squirrel
in the middle of
a country road
and– phone out,
music loud–
I can’t tell
if I ran it over.
(originally published in Ink Pantry, Summer 2023)