The closest I will ever be
to the moon is on this plane
over Charlotte, returning
from my cousin’s wedding
in Huntsville, Alabama.
Face pressed against
the window I overlook
the wing where light
reflects off wing– a
certain curved angle
makes two moons.
Earlier, the sunset
was rust. This morning,
we had brunch
at The Broken
Egg, my distant family
sat across the
table from me,
the length
of a Filipino flag,
the closest
we will ever be.
(originally published in The Round, Spring 2025)
That gray summer was spent buried
in fantasy novels beside my father’s grave.
It was rain in bitter heat, a whirlwind of pages
as my hands returned to oak, night lamp aglow.
Always I end in a nestle of branches and words,
longing to strip my faded jeans and unbathe,
ride a dragon into goldenrod, triangular
wings swallowing the neutral sky–
so often I shovel terrain in my mouth,
wishing time erode the sediment
that builds cities in my body,
skyscrapers in my throat.
(originally published in The Piedmont Journal of Poetry and Fiction, Winter 2017)