I have lived long enough
to know to stay
out of the water. Bug guts
a crushed red berry beside
me. If there’s poison off
the dock– weeds in everlasting
web, I have a lot of gnats
to catch along the muddy
path around the pond of singing
birds and bullfrogs leading
the way to Destiny’s house.
(originally published in Roi Faneant, Summer 2022)
Waking up early makes me important.
Now I must find something important
to say. The less I write the more that flows
when I sit down. No audience.
Always myself. Often, I find a line
on the wall and trace its path to the end.
A spider ambled across my desk last week
and like my cat I still expect it there.
The other day a centipede sprinted
into my pile of laundry on carpet
and I just haven’t worn clothes since.
Sometimes it’s better to wear no legs
when the alternative is too many.
(originally published in Studio One, Spring 2021)
shining
in the sunlight
of our driveway
I go inside
to tell Dad
come see
what
I
found
no hesitation:
he squishes
its golden
guts out
a thing like
that
he says
is nothing
more
than a nuisance
but I keep
thinking
about that beetle
impossibly one
of a kind
and today
I watched
a boring
black
beetle
scurrying
across
the pavement
of Goodale Park
and disappear
into grass
and I thought
the ground
is teeming
with beetles
if I just dig
a hole
deep enough
I might
be able
to apologize
(originally published in Pouch, Fall 2018)
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)
from bed we stared upward
at dead bugs in the light fixture
dark spots scattered so motionless
at the foot of what blinds and allures
you said I’m not going to remove them
I mentioned the blinds were parted this entire time
you said a homeless man lives across the street
but the cold and snow would prevent anyone from watching
the light was dimmed
neither of us intended escape
I learned a stinkbug can withstand temperatures
of negative twenty I had tossed one into snow
and it froze meaning its heart turned cold
in an instant and I expect it to
the shell lifeless and its own
dark spot in the snow
the walls were already painted olive
you said you could live with that
we guessed the time and now past midnight
you hadn’t done your reading for the morning
so I returned to the salted road
cruising past dark snow
and trees no cars
no other lights
for miles just ice
just cold just frosts
and frozen bugs
expecting spring
to bring some kind of meaning
(originally published in Ohio Edit)
