At first was suffocating.
In my throat was a sandbag.
After I practiced pushing the door
to escape, once I learned how to remove tension–
both arms hot dog-style past my head–
I became a floating head in a dead, still ocean.
Breathing itself was a plane running the runway–
the only sound in the universe.
(originally published in Brief Wilderness, Winter 2024)
Your laugh could knock civilization out
but you are too modest.
I spent time at the cafeteria alone
at school. Red trays quivered.
On film sets I can’t look up.
How tight is the lighting rig?
When I apply that logic
to our place in the universe–
it’s too cold a stone to live alone.
When your soundwaves reach me,
in my solace, from the moon
or Mars or Mars, Pennsylvania,
I want my life to begin again
and I want you there
the whole time.
(originally published in Ephemeral Elegies, Spring 2023)
you said the first time I picked you up
on our way to a family-style dinner &
then we drove through curvy hills I am
not yet comfortable with, the darkness
now so fitting.
I came empty-
handed, I didn’t want to drink
too much then drive you home. &
we didn’t know anyone who’d be
at our table but you’re better with
strangers. The restaurant was on
a corner facing a bus stop, &
people watched as I drove doughnuts
around the dual-railroad tracks
adjacent, seeking a place to park
not marked by sign or road decay.
I wanted to talk to you more
about anything, but you opened
my driver door
& walked me in.
(originally published in Words & Whispers, Winter 2023)
Anxious being
lost. Pockets
a pit. I am
unable to unlock
the city’s doors,
its construction-heavy
streets, under girders.
I stare past bluegray
grids to the stars. I know
nothing of architecture
but windows and doors–
what is clear enough
to see through.
My stack of days
is a tall building
leading to where
I have yet to go.
(originally published in Corvus Review, Summer 2023)
cooped in a house this depressed era winter
summer you say I’m really your friend I believe
it now but before in the spring it was pinwheels
could’ve been poets seeking nothing but tea coffee
chocolates grand canyon space understating
worlds of difference your activism accurate
paintings hang over white walls laughter
your echo screams through town I have a bucket
of these memories splashing out on the short
walk to your place I can’t stop feeding monsters
you laugh at me onscreen onstage
our common ground is both of us leave as far
as we can go to stay an other
(originally published in Avatar Review, Summer 2021)
Improv class was how
I learned to say what
I wanted to say to you–
ice became the basis
instead.
I froze on stage
into an audience of burning arms.
If limbs were currency,
I’d be rich
in dangling
inside jokes from class when
I should have let you
in on conversations we both were part of–
inches from the icebox,
our freezer.
(originally published in Rollick Magazine, Winter 2023)
of walking down the street at night, red
and blue sirens wailing past, and people
being shot in front of me, their bodies
dragged across the sidewalk
out of view.
Maybe because I’ve binged
The Handmaid’s Tale
or work too much (stress
the swan song we stay singing).
Whatever the cause,
I live
in America, America,
America.
(originally published in Good Cop / Bad Cop: An Anthology (FlowerSong Press), Summer 2021)
Another gray sky day, empty gas tank worries in the countryside
nowhere don’t you long for my touch? Oz runs just far enough
for the bone against the backdrop of my outstretched arm
hand out fingers extended & I don’t know where I stand with Jessie
except she must find me pathetic as she walks into water under the
influence of Dr. Dog & now she swim-dances the past three days she’s
walked along the rock edge of the pool. & now I need to text Tony Z.
what’s a man most afraid of? I’m getting used to inadequacy. Oz brings
his bone to the other side of the fence. Jessie says she misses the green,
the pool purified at the beginning. Sara throws pong ball through
the hole of a lime lifesaver floatie and a butterfly metaphor soars
above the water. Have you ever almost drowned on drugs? I don’t
recommend it. The lesson is gravity’s not the occasionally falling apple
but the drifting leaf toward the other side, whatever the definition. September
third and we just got our first sunburns. Hannah leaves the house after
work and like a magic trick, three pong balls appear in the water
and the sun reveals itself a moment. Oz lays in the grass in front
of me before a philosophical discussion about casserole and how to cope
with beans bought at the beginning of pandemic we will never eat.
(originally published in KNOT Magazine, Fall 2021)
The endless universe of this coffee-church
I blend into the ground, ground
anxiety into yours, I met you there, pit-
pattering footsteps I couldn’t stop
listening to. I asked myself
if this was a joke
the way only nervous nothing I said
to you. Yah-yah-yah.
I am awake, I know
over this river I
Jesus-walk miraculously
you reach your hand
to me–
cold, wet illness.
Neither of us are
here.
(originally published in Academy of the Heart and Mind, Winter 2021)
in the coffee shop
you tuck a bundle
of lavender
into the v
of your shirt,
aim it at your nose
then type furious
emails to co-workers
gently
gently
(originally published in Crack the Spine, Fall 2018)