holding a cigarette
until it flew into the mess
of a tree
smoke
like a white twig
I wandered
onto the crosswalk
without looking
the black sedan didn’t stop
(originally published in The Kolkata Arts Blog, Summer 2024)
bird
Waiting on Mr. Woodpecker
what is funny about time its weight has
summer to look forward to I am stuck
in spring my watch says autumn the past
not with me may all prayers be with you
I genuflect my bucket list I never want to sky
dive I never want to die yet what handiwork
that built and builds the house this bird has
whose hours were mine I would never claim
(originally published in Bruiser Mag, Spring 2023)
A Cockatrice Couple
Watching cardinals by the window, I expect them
to drop dead. But they never. Instead, we keep drinking
bird-themed beers and fly in orbit around each other’s
other lovers, because when we are drunk we call ourselves
a cockatrice couple, the way we span to such great lengths
to say, we’re blooming, there’s nothing wrong, we bloom.
Always, we come down to earth and say we can’t, never
could. When we land in water, our human qualities
return. Can’t withstand
the current.
(originally published in *82 Review, Fall 2022)
Chicken Imitations
We made Arrested Development-esque chicken imitations
at the restaurant– bakawk, cheep-cheep, wakka wakka–
being young, I thought that was the language of love.
We always laughed across the chasm of the room
when we shut shop, squeezing soap rags into heart buckets,
wiping fresh clear streaks on mahogany tables. I vacuumed
pita crumbs and invisible dust, emptied bags thinking,
perhaps, I was on the verge of vanquishing loneliness,
that I was sprinkling zaatar on a plate of foggy shish
tawook, a taste you might return to.
(originally published in Vagabond City Lit, Spring 2023)
Apex
a crow
glances edge of
frame
the moment before
the boomerang
reverses
(originally published in Beatnik Cowboy, Winter 2021)
Sunday
Doesn’t matter how much dark red
wine you drink, the clock always
ticks westward to the setting sun,
the city lights flickering on when
lips are dry and winter recesses
so blackbirds can meander across
the morning’s bluegray sky then
perch along powerlines to watch
as you walk to your car this warm
January morning, beads for eyes
everywhere
(originally published in The Academy of the Heart and Mind, Fall 2020)
Bird Boredom
The rapid flute of birds
is overdone–
flying through loops
of branches, etc.
Give me a
sculptured break,
e.g. snapped twigs,
seesawed oaks.
I look for a natural disorder
to split the monotony
of days watching
windows of walkers
to the tune of A/C’s
perpetual, tone-deaf baritone.
(originally published in Ink in Thirds, Winter 2019)
West Covina Cormorant
these angled wings of black toxic piranha
triangles and sometimes yellow is diode
connecting spark to sky– open your mouth
raw fish skin and wet I will wait for something
new in the feathers of ripped jeans and we will
sigh about the weather the snow and cold want
of July’s salamander tanktop days and reproduce
downriver toward industrial cities of light
and tall structures of billowing ominous smoke
(originally published in The Wayfarer, 2018)
Ephemeral Garden
The map leads from bloom to wing
to sky– we followed gracefully before
black swan wings haunted our spines.
I was tangled in the garden of words
and you did not believe a thing
I said. I cowered in sagebrush
to study flying squirrels (the wingless
claim the sky). I told you I would never tell
another lie because what is truth
in an ephemeral garden, where the birdsong
of thrashers becomes language?
I attempt to look away from truth
but the truth is, nothing in this world
shocks me any more than when I crane my head
to see the nightmare we have become.
(originally published in Zany Zygote Review, Spring 2017)
Cardinals
Cold fronts enter spring, but cardinals
sing their frigid songs despite soft snow.
Red lips still curl over the sidewalk’s cigarettes
but warmth dissipates when smoke leaves the body.
Pale hands reach from corners of blurry photographs–
push through crowds of these-were-my-lovers–
tines of bright puncture darkness. Negative dust
turns to light: the telescope observed your eyes
wandering the dark. Believe the perched cardinal
is lost love thinking of you who sculpts the moon
out of papier-mâché– scope the abyss for stars
but smell the art’s silver crumble on your skin.
(originally published in Thirteen Myna Birds, Fall 2016)