in the midst of split
caffeine
tremors & vertigo
earth I
plopped
into sinkhole
a heap of turtle
shell floor tiles
you reached
for my hand
inside
was a walnut
butter brownie
(originally published in Erothanatos, Summer 2021)
breakup
2014
Of course I remember how to be alone,
how to drag a lawn chair out to smoke
a shore and offer loneliness a bottle.
But there you would meet me
on a staircase of sand and we’d
gaze at the stars, meld into soft
landscape, cheek nuzzled in
a palm, starfish digging into
the sandwarm face of earth.
(originally published in Literary Yard, Summer 2018)
False Alarm
Street sweeping
happens irregularly
around here. Every
three months then
you forget about it.
I’ve been off and on in love
with my roommate since the
day she moved in. November
rain, the red-bricked road,
I look out my window–
no cars on the side
of the street I parked on.
I scramble from my room,
her boyfriend in the hallway,
and I yell street cleaning!
His eyes bug up
and we race down
stairs to beat the tow
trucks but I open the door
to see cars parked around mine.
I tell him I’m going anyway
to check the signs–
which I do in my blue
flip-flops, waddling out into
wet grass to find
next week’s the sweeping–
and don’t we always
wait yet another week
to cleanse ourselves of what
we fear we don’t need?
A bad job
or incompatible lover.
For months they have fought
about necessary changes
neither of them will make,
and just last week
she told me
the cycle of her life
goes in years by threes.
The job, the lover,
the house, the dust.
There’s a chill. I’m not wearing
a jacket, so I go back inside
and tell him it’s next week–
but he’s known this for weeks.
(originally published in Columbia Journal Online, Winter 2018)
Ant Gel
Fill the cracks so the ants can’t infest.
This is the poison applied for feeding:
urine-yellow icky glue sealing lips
to take home to another body. Sometimes
words stick where I open my mouth–
the crevice between us not letting you in.
I, too, have brought small gifts back
underground thinking them an olive
branch. Each attempt kills one way
or another. Malignant misinterpretations.
I return with this pellet of words.
This killing I never meant to witness.
(originally published in Abstract Magazine, Fall 2017)
Your Teeth, My Teeth
clatter. chew
through apples (nothing).
half a meal, half a pine,
half of what we hoped for,
if.
the way a core reveals itself inedible,
though we knew.
from day one, bites
and bites.
sometimes the juice sweetness
overpowers slow rot.
it was early on, and worms
had yet to emerge from their holes
in the ground to greet us.
all we had to do
was wait for rain.
(originally published in First Literary Review – East, Winter 2018)
Two Nightmares in My Car on Rosewood
I.
A shadow figure outside the Ford’s locked door.
He jiggles the handle
hey can you drive me to Santa Clarita
I said no I have been drinking whiskey
which was a lie
he said let me in
I did not
II.
When I wake for a walk in the middle of the night,
clothes bunched on red benches under streetlights
like someone had been there
and disappeared
III.
I call my ex
I can’t stop thinking about you
shadows float from her eyes
into mine
cigarette smoke
bats
understand: we lived
in the cave of each other
IV.
under orange streetlights
blankets hang from headrests
to drape me from the world
(originally published in The Nottingham Review, Fall 2017)
Caterpillars
I watched us turn into centipedes,
not butterflies– tiny legs to run
pushed out of us, not wings.
In half-moon light we crawled
the hollow ridges of our bodies.
Someday, we thought. Children.
But it was true: neither of us knew
how to bloom. We kept scratching
at the other’s skin digging
for the beating heart
but only exposed the blood.
(originally published in The Quiet Letter, Summer 2017)
My Smartphone’s Fingerprint Sensor Cannot Detect Me
Do not forget me:
I have struggled to break
through my own absence
of field. Let a helium balloon
float to where it disappears.
We have not spoken
in years. The phone you gave
me I replaced to return
my sense of self-place. Still,
send me a signal you sense me,
and we will come to static
where we cannot hear
how we wish to be heard
but we will know
we are there.
(originally published in CultureCult Magazine, 2017)
The Star Exhales One Final Breath
I’ve written the last
I can about you.
No more spirits in this blue-and-gray
jacket with the familiar coffee stain.
Out of poetry and time to spare.
Like December’s brisk spit of snow.
The lack of wonderment.
And truth.
(originally published in Corvus Review, Fall 2016)
Syzygy
We collected enough spacedust
to build a story, and so began
ours. I sought ways to learn
you: almanacs, online astronomy
classes, science fiction novels.
You were a constellation
to call my own. Time wore
on, and light from an ex-lover
reached you. Your position
in the sky changed. You
moved no closer. I bought
a telescope you admired
for awhile. Said you liked
the way I looked at you. Here
I thought I was the only one
you gleamed for. I asked
for your coordinates. You said
no matter where you went,
you would always be brighter
by the other star.
(originally published in Halfway Down the Stairs, Summer 2017)