everywhere on the bagel, poppies
in the out of focus fields, poppies
the feeds scroll full of puppies
the home, poppies
what can you say about fireworks
has already exploded
in mouth in blood
we buds. we bud.
grandpa was a farmer
he tended to his poppies
white and wild wind
the wind. white and wild
(originally published in As It Ought To Be Magazine, Spring 2023 – nominated for a Pushcart Prize)
Mom is from the Philippines;
she has been American
forty years. Made a habit of white
rice and chicken. So I was never
vegetarian. Home of meats
and starch– broth for breakfast.
She never taught me traditional
dishes; I only ate
what was given. Can’t speak
Tagalog– last I heard,
she’s trilingual and I am
thirty years old, eating French toast–
bread in cream in butter. Plus sugar.
I must be American.
(originally published in Madness Muse Press, Fall 2020)
on mornings of annoyances 20-degree cold
sneaks through windows between my teeth
ices milk with each spoonful of Cheerios
& lukewarm coffee you study flipping
quickly the notebook flicking several gales
then scrawl in red pen what I assume curses
so I respond with this handful of nothing words
recyclables inside non-recyclable plastic I know
if I communicated better you wouldn’t be
ripping out perforated pages wanting to move
on but the cat watches winter leaves whisk
by the window & tonight it will snow
(originally published in The Seventh Quarry, Summer 2023)
Dog through the window– charcoal snow
and peanut-speckle brushstrokes– I watch you
served by our server on the patio under
Azorean’s white umbrella. If only I could be
of service to a creature so brown-eyed and sacred.
I want to be good, too, and melt the heart of people
I encounter. But I am out of it– I still feel new here
and spend my workweeks isolated and curious
for the world I miss around me, its strangers
a wild pack wandering the streets, searching
for any scent that spells joy. How mine smells of cinnamon
blocked by endless windows overlooking a sea of blue
recycling trucks inside a sharp metal fence, and– even now–
I peer through glass, smelting, as our server rubs your head,
as passers-by smile as they go wherever they must go.
I want to be unleashed, too– to put both knees on
concrete, pet the fur between your ears, and
inhale, together, Saturday’s shared freedom.
(originally published in Hello America, Fall 2019)
To curb today’s desire
to drink, I part the
lips of a childhood
friend– Tony the Tiger
on cardboard blue–
and rip the bag
to snow
a bowl of corn
and white.
Nintendo used
to be my fix,
controller gripped
through loud
and colorful
screens
until the light
of morning.
And when I
started drinking
I didn’t think
one day
I’d need
to stop.
I eat
bowl
after
bowl
until
I
pour
the
d
u
s
t
.
(originally published in Goat Farm Poetry Society – Edges Zine, Winter 2019)
I cracked an egg
with a butcher’s knife
watching yolk seep
yellow cracked surface
rough on my hands
two halves and a spill
in the sink
I have a whole
carton little hopes
silent things never
living never words
I open
each heart to beat
to whisk to swirl
and wish a tornado
in this bowl of force
and gale in golden
pool in cauldron pan
and spatula pressing
hard over white turned
head caked edges
center sliced over
all this heat blackened
burnt but good
enough to eat
(originally published in SPANK the CARP, 2017)
A butterknife has potential.
Voila! Cream cheese
on an everything
bagel.
The microwave beeps.
The ceiling fan spins.
Onions brown
at the bottom of the fridge.
Throw out the bag.
Then throw out that bag.
Swiffer shoeprints
off the floor.
Take your shoes off
next time.
Catch the mouse before
it multiplies
though you know
that means to snap
its neck.
So don’t.
Summon all the light
you can.
(originally published in DMQ Review, Summer 2017; featured later as a Verse Daily “Web Weekly Feature” the week of July 24, 2017)
I forgot about the Honey Nut Cheerios
I left on the counter in the kitchen.
Brought it to my room after my coffee,
grains soggy, milk sweet. Tried eating it
anyway but fell apart in sugary disintegration.
So I gave up. That’s usually what happens–
a few bites and that’s enough. I let it sit,
let it warm in the morning’s cool, gradual rise
to afternoon heat thinking about the satisfying
crunch it should give me, how I could have clamored
for seconds. I caress the silver spoon in deep
to slow splash and clank. This is what it becomes:
a pool of not-good-enough and I can’t will myself
to lift the ceramic altar to my lips to drink. I stare
at bottomless milk and know I live somewhere drowning
in this disappointment treading out to some delicious
shore somewhere only I know how to live, but here’s
this stale frothy white, stagnant in my bowl,
and me hovering lamenting stressing
over something fixable.
(originally published in The Remembered Arts Journal, Winter 2017)
I would walk to the ends of the Earth for you or,
more accurately, to the brunch spot a few
blocks down the street to spend ten dollars,
ten minutes with a runny yolk on a southern
chicken breast sandwiched in a biscuit, while
your silver-haired friend buys your meal and shares
his own, he who kindly asks if I want more water
because he could always use more, like all of California
during my time there; he who gushes about the beauty
of rain-soaked Seattle, how in a three-sixty swivel
hills lush green and you never feel more alive.
I cannot help but agree that, yes, the Pacific Northwest
has a fog which casts a pall over my slinking shadow, loses it;
yes, casts a spell on my marionette body, slackens my spine
to skeleton-cast my demotion of confidence to learn, no–
to move back east from the west is not that unique.
Ladies are not impressed with artifacts,
rust coating that less authentic time.
(originally published in Down in the Dirt, Spring 2016)
our short harmony brushes my teeth
flosses the ridges bending eating
at me the yellowy plaque on white
the yolks in morning how inside
we are tender sunny side up I love
the way you look at me those
runny eyes gushing off the pan
onto black-and-white tile floor
grids the burgeoning cities
in our minds cars read
the streetlights’ caution
as go, go, go . . .
(originally published in The City Key, Spring 2016)