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)
I want to sketch surroundings
in my skull they are skeletons
each day dustwhite percussion
bleating purple ears forgetting
shapes faces family landscape
manicured blood lawn of bone
dry cocktails to leash legacy
within brick pen of a home
we call distance inside air
conditioned repainted longing
to be where you are inside
construction green architects
will lose the blueprint to
(originally published in former People, Winter 2020)
The busiest road in Columbus is an obstacle course: orange cones
and road closeds (open to local traffic only). Here, in the heart
of Ohio, we build by tearing down. A red crane leaps and a small
business closes, resurrects as Target– bullseye– the suit, the lipstick.
Soon you, too, will not be able to afford to live here. The remodeled
library is threatened by the bones across the street: a nine-story
building in the midst of construction. Wind whips plastic
bags that hang from its scaffolds and I see the ghost–
the restaurant in its wake. Dark clouds
gather above, knowing they, too, have displaced.
(originally published in Literary Orphans, 2018)