the spinning lights these strangers
disco couch crumbs heat and fizz
we are from a strange land, too
& everyone seems to ask what are you we
know what we are (breathing) into
mouth an ancient flame
acolytes of fire tamed by song
we could burn this house down
(originally published in BlazeVOX Journal, Spring 2023)
Maybe I’m not as angsty.
Don’t need to drown
in the drone of lost
love. The haunted house
no longer my dwelling.
My ghost still the past
but not possessed by
obsession. The passage
of time a lapis lazuli–
ten years of wisdom
in which my sadness
may look the same,
but now able to withstand
a storm without music.
(originally published in Stickman Review, Fall 2022)
I shuffle through memory for
a single midnight. What did we do
at school? Redeem gold tokens
at Swings ‘N’ Things? Cleveland led
me to lake by leash. We listened to Feist
among lilacs and buttercups. We lived
near the airport, never flew. I shouldn’t
keep money for unusable transactions. What
a concept, after the drinking started. If darkness
is inevitable, please invite me to your party.
(originally published in Dear Reader, Summer 2021)
For David and Anna
Rain is never insurmountable,
and the sun never gets old,
though we plan to, together,
to grow with green things
sprouting at our feet. We
watch new trees become
wise while the landscape
shifts, as it must, and though
Earth spins briskly– almost
beyond what we can fathom–
it has order, being as small
and in love as we are.
We stand on our plot
of land, firm though
flung through time and
space, the universe we
made forever expanding.
(originally published in The Vineyard, Winter 2023)
First baseball game I’ve seen this season– game seven
of the World Series, Houston versus Washington. A sea
of orange in Texas. Scherzer versus Springer. Joe Buck
talks about muscle injections, pinched nerves, breaking
ball– full count. He says this series is full of big swings,
big emotions– isn’t that a normal week? Dad watched
every Cleveland game. Ever. For a summer I did,
too, but October is chillier than usual. Last week, we
buried my oldest brother. We used to play sports
games– Triple Play 2000, Gran Turismo– on the
basement’s cold, brown carpet, where all physics
hurtled toward inevitable destinations: a ball singing
through the air into a blurry glove, or tires spinning
through some grainy tunnel. We’d trade wins, half-
luck, but there was always a conclusion. Last year,
I held his hand in the hospital. He squeezed my
fingers and said what he couldn’t with his eyes.
Last week, he didn’t get the kidney he needed.
When Washington wins, I see men cry on each
other’s shoulders. When my brother dies, my brother
cries on my shoulder. I cry on his shoulder.
And when we look at each other,
we find someone we both miss.
(originally published in Knot Literary Magazine, Fall 2021)
been having issues with teeth
and insurance these past few weeks
waiting to get my mouth examined
for sharp pain at its core
and today I found a decent dentist
who accepts my bad insurance
and after the assistant’s questions
after the x-ray the dentist
lowers my chair
for a closer look when fire
men tell us to evacuate
due to a gas leak
and now I’m with the dentist
and his staff in the parking lot
poison in the air
talking Cleveland sports
and root canals
but the building never
catches fire
that doesn’t mean strangers
didn’t rush to the scene
(originally published in Edison Literary Review, Spring 2020)
We danced; gorillas
covered their ears
behind the glass
(originally published in Dodging the Rain, Spring 2020)
All these quiet prayers
from two thousand miles away
to impact the spin of the ball–
hope that could travel
far enough to land
in the temporary nestle of a net.
(originally published in Triggerfish Critical Review, Winter 2020)
The problem wasn’t that I stopped at a Steak ‘N’ Shake for dinner on the way to your party, but that near Cleveland I couldn’t help but crack open the Great Lakes IPAs I had bought at a 7-Eleven near the Steak ‘N’ Shake and the headlights became shooting stars on 71 but I hadn’t considered meteoric impact and the crater I would have left, a vast hole – I hope– in my loved ones’ lives and I now know I have to sometimes be depressing to climb out of a rut (today included, this long ladder up), to remember vehicular impact affects more than me but that this world runs on an oil field of sad things happening and I am trying my best to prevent the potential to die every day and I have eluded it, as you have, and I love you, I love you, and must remember you might love me, too.
(originally published in Magnolia Review, Winter 2021)
Vital signs at zero, a squiggly line gone infinity–
guess what I’ve prepared for. An eternity of this
nothingness. I tossed the phone like a grappling
hook at your distance and it caught. You left it
hanging on the bricks, though, and moved to
California, where I used to sleep the streets in
my Ford Fiesta, the same car we drove to Melt:
a time bomb heart attack. How close we were
back then, each deep-fried grilled cheese bite
hushed the thrumming. Fingers greasy– wiped
on napkins, wiped and wiped and wiped.
(originally published in Hedge Apple, Spring 2019)