The closest I will ever be
to the moon is on this plane
over Charlotte, returning
from my cousin’s wedding
in Huntsville, Alabama.
Face pressed against
the window I overlook
the wing where light
reflects off wing– a
certain curved angle
makes two moons.
Earlier, the sunset
was rust. This morning,
we had brunch
at The Broken
Egg, my distant family
sat across the
table from me,
the length
of a Filipino flag,
the closest
we will ever be.
(originally published in The Round, Spring 2025)
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)