When lightning strikes a distant tree
I lift my hands from the steering wheel.
Hail knocks on the windshield–
a desperate stranger. Curled in fleece,
I hide behind windows, the past
a gathering flood until the sun
bares terrible fangs
of clarity and renewal.
(originally published in Rust + Moth, Autumn 2018)
college, I learned
how to survive
with the GPA of
(originally published in SOFT CARTEL, 2018)
As I waited for my burger at Northstar
I saw they had copies of The Bitter Oleander,
and on the first page was the work
of my first poetry professor.
Buzzing on metaphor,
I sent an email to tell her
that they’ve also published me before
but it has been a couple of years.
She told me
to sleep it off.
(originally published in EgoPHobia, Spring 2018)
I want to jump your bones.
alive with every
touch: hand on
on wrist, lips
on steamed hair
and you tell me
I’m doing that thing
again, calling you pretty
when half your hair’s curly,
the other half straight and
I tell you I mean it
like when I watch you
in the mirror bring hot iron
to hair and I mean it
like when I kiss you
steam leaves our lips,
a collision of curves
into flat plane open
and infinite where
only we exist.
(originally published in The Sunlight Press, 2018)
sometimes who you love
is anticipation thus you wave
at forecasts flail at clouds
hands defying gravity you
drop-down dance someone
into your heart
(originally published in Botticelli Magazine, Spring 2018)
Easy you observe the brimstone gold
plated on a perch and the gulls above
broadcast O ye airwaves message
this white noise raging in the country
the clamor in the background of the FM radio
(originally published in New Pop Lit, Spring 2018)
When I was homeless, I snuck into gyms.
Browned shower floors with footprints.
A rose inside curtains’ slow steam,
I became an endless bloom,
tongue lapping the head.
(originally published in Pidgeonholes, Spring 2018)
pink cube of lukewarm touch
crumbs a trail to what end
these futuristic forever years
consume each day
(originally published in #theslideshow, Winter 2018)
& you weep on the phone
asking what’s wrong
nothing I say
the white noise
needed for sleep
(originally published in Rosette Malificarum, Winter 2018)
Our beginning was rooted in the oak of a throwaway job;
I was twenty, admiring clay pots we painted in the strokes
of humid Akron days, its summer colors swirling blue.
To approach you would have been more than I could handle–
in the playground of desire, I chucked woodchips of my heart
into the air and they never came down. I think of you often–
in pastel cartoons, how remembered faces fade. After summer
ended, I knew I would never see you again. How the seasons
burn like leaves then rise to ashes, clinging warm to trees.
(originally published in Poetry Super Highway, Winter 2018)