must be the upcoming road
trip to Portland, to return
briskly in love with
someone
I haven’t seen
in years
and work on my state
in
her living room
where lamps float
sails on a lake room
(originally published in Setu, Summer 2020)
2015
Sleeping in My Car, I Fear Thunderstorms Again
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)
I Think of Giraffes Sometimes. I Hope They Sometimes Think of Me.
In Kathleen’s apartment in Oregon,
I ask her where even is home?
Clevelanders-turned-transplants,
maybe never knowing.
I see my mom’s mown lawn
in the green fields our baseball
team travels through, my friends
in tweets spitting scores or stats.
These, I don’t care about,
but I join in discussion.
Blue hands to high-five,
then to put my phone down.
(originally published in Hobart, Winter 2018)
Mortality as First Date
The chairs we sit in are steel
horses, sad and dead. What you said
at the gallery in the warehouse was
to you, I have only given death and cookies.
Or corpses confused with candy.
Your cheeks puff, withdraw.
You’re silver in ceramic.
If I were a romantic I’d say
you belong in the painting.
Longing, always. But I am
a romantic. When we strolled
the botanical gardens we found longing
in the plants deemed poisonous.
How close I get to each sweet thing.
How close each is to death.
(originally published in Pif Magazine, Winter 2018)
Last Night’s Bonfire at My Desk
spilled honey clings to black wires
connecting the world my lifeblood
laptop nestled in her shell safe from fingers
goldenrod shirt covers the old burns
the pinewood ashes coat my nostrils
the harsh wind blows crooked conifer to the verge
almost to fracture the window waiting
to kaleidoscope glass a body as canvas
hardwood red lust to cleanse gathering dust
rain pats the chair-infested patio drips of
laughter boomerang from slippery brick
and the blonde coughs from beyond the dark
halls of shed fur & grime
(originally published in Freshwater, Spring 2018)
Two Nightmares in My Car on Rosewood
I.
A shadow figure outside the Ford’s locked door.
He jiggles the handle
hey can you drive me to Santa Clarita
I said no I have been drinking whiskey
which was a lie
he said let me in
I did not
II.
When I wake for a walk in the middle of the night,
clothes bunched on red benches under streetlights
like someone had been there
and disappeared
III.
I call my ex
I can’t stop thinking about you
shadows float from her eyes
into mine
cigarette smoke
bats
understand: we lived
in the cave of each other
IV.
under orange streetlights
blankets hang from headrests
to drape me from the world
(originally published in The Nottingham Review, Fall 2017)
Mid-December
The alley is paved with old bricks
blackened by rain. I used to want
conformity, that tidal hope gripping
your gut. You must have a family soon.
Everywhere babies are sprouting
but garden sprinklers are off because winter
is near, crackled dirt longing for storm–
how long since the rough of gale and rain?
Seasons, in these frigid airs. And my seedling
heart stopped growing soon after its first beat.
(originally published in The Coachella Review, Winter 2017)
Five Minutes: Rain
Thunder
was the memory–
booming in bloom
I take
without giving
you petals.
With mist lifting
off Lake Dardanelle,
I ask
what it means
to be new–
so young was the fog
the mind’s cleaver sliced.
(originally published in The Quiet Letter, Summer 2017)
Like a Penny on a Sidewalk
I used to find joy in little things.
Like luck on the head
of a penny.
Or a tire chained
to a blue wall
in the subway.
Or two bullets,
no gun.
Or your glance
on long drives
beside the ocean.
I feel ill. I declare this heaven’s day.
No fool was a folk legend tragedy.
No fool a fish on a hook
reeled from the lake.
Tomorrow my hand leaves
your palm.
Your name, claws
on the four-drink ignition.
White rose– consider
a wing. Next, a thumb.
Voices, skies so blue…
I’d find your eyes play music.
(originally published in Eunoia Review, Winter 2017)
The Star Exhales One Final Breath
I’ve written the last
I can about you.
No more spirits in this blue-and-gray
jacket with the familiar coffee stain.
Out of poetry and time to spare.
Like December’s brisk spit of snow.
The lack of wonderment.
And truth.
(originally published in Corvus Review, Fall 2016)