we wore our best hunter-green waited patiently
as men took a different kind of field we craved
sustenance a resurrection a flight a waiting
by window in the purple light under wrong
tin roof what we tossed into sky we threw
away our wing-missiles pigskins of self
talons landing burrowing deep out of view
what craft drunk disturbance in the flapping
february frigidity that beat against our jackets
yours the bird slick knit on surface mine
a thready childhood blanket to keep no one
and nothing not the least of heat my heart
drinks beside you as it waits for the game
to be good but it never does and always was
(originally published in Fast Pop Lit, Fall 2025)
cold
First Frost
in the game you say it is time
to stop being obnoxious it is
morning in the year of Our
Tiger twenty twenty-two
feels like a glitch to write
over and over but living
like this with imposed
time limits before ice
scrapes off my vehicle
I lose sight of the sun
the windshield white
(originally published in Rundelania, Fall 2024)
So Frigid, Even Light Posts Are Shivering
Shivering light
in Michigan,
four-headed
beacon–
you dance
to shake
the cold’s
tongue
stuck
to
your
body
(originally published in The Sunlight Press, Spring 2023)
December, 2020
I don’t have a new perspective.
Snow thaws on sidewalk beside
uncollected garbage. Half the city
workers are in quarantine yet
there are boxes to be shipped
for Christmas or our mothers’
birthdays. I drove on dew
streets to buy you bagels–
but stopped at the sight of
a long line to retreat into
the O of your arms in my
mind. Please park
your car next to mine.
We will sit in our usual
distance and wait for spring.
(originally published in Dodging the Rain, Winter 2021)
Artifact
I want my mouth
over anywhere
your mouth has been
there is a frozen
chocolate milkshake
in the freezer
with your straw
stuck in it like
a lit cigarette
I burn for you
but the cup is an
icicle a block
of crystal pellets
melting on the purple
island of my palm
(originally published in Perceptions Magazine, Summer 2022)
December 12, 2017
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)
Depression in February
month close to death. not quite. i mean
lingering. sword in my throat sharpens.
no blood just ideas. look somehow
i’ll make it through & you will too.
sun a fluorescent hospital interior
bland & tasteless. every song out
of tune piano room. cold blanket
can’t hide the notes dark &
hovering outside the window
(originally published in OVERHEARD Lit, Winter 2022)
After the Polar Vortex
Sixteen degrees sounds like spring, so I go for a walk.
I haven’t left the house in days– restless heart, I needed
scenery until I step into unshoveled snow. I sigh and scrape
the spade against the sidewalk to clear the path for travelers.
A woman rolls a spare tire along the street and, seeing snow
stick to rubber, I decide my walk must end in beer. I follow
her in the direction of the store and buy a six-pack of Truth
and head back home, where my partner asks where I went–
I don’t mean to keep things from her. I just say I needed
to clear my head, and that it’s drinking season. She says
I thought sunshine was drinking season, and that’s true,
too– I can’t go outside without wanting to drink, whether
flurry or thunder. Whichever road I walk leads to wanting.
(originally published in The Literary Yard, Spring 2020)
End of Relationship (Winter)
I demand forever with flurry and tempest
my voice scorched except you tell me where
to bury our ice because I dug it up with
a shovel the cemetery in our driveway
our kitchen our bedroom chiseled away
with yellow scraper cheap on the verge
of breaking
(originally published in Indiana Voice Journal, Winter 2018)
22 Degrees
walk winter
nights
and float she
may one day love
you ice
& gilded wing
a starling’s
distant song
for snow
she knows
means slipping
(originally published in Whistling Shade, Autumn 2018)