walking outside my ears freeze this café too crowded
sounds clamoring clashing the table rickety as I type
jittering just like me earthquake in winter I clamp
feet down on unstable leg a line of strangers behind
me talking demons pleasure scotch tape on wind
-ows advertising ghosts windblack Silverado drive me
into spring before glass shatters I cut my feet stepping
out of myself
(originally published in Runcible Spoon, Fall 2020)
I want more– god,
our nights on the patio
are memory’s reruns.
I want it back: you,
your hand secretly
caressing my chest
beside the dead firepit.
Everything. You asked
to craft me a drink
with Firefly whiskey.
You made it strong
& asked if I could
withstand this. No–
I’m weak. Each kiss
that night, your lips
sudden, brief– through
the crowd we looked
for each other, making
a game of running
around the kitchen island
to never catch the other,
but how close we were
to giving our all. This
close to telling you
I never could get over
you. But here’s
a chance to start.
(originally published in EgoPHobia, Summer 2021)
Asking where
the ladder led
was stupid
you said up
to the roof
and of course
it does
I guess I’m
saying we both
work at Panera
and when
thinking about
my prospects
they are not high
because if I were
to grab a rung
and lift myself up
I would probably
fall but if I didn’t
the locked door
at the top means
I’d struggle for an
unspectacular view
(originally published in Fleas on the Dog, Summer 2020)
at our local bar
you put my finger
in your mouth
and suck
in view of
your partner
this now lingers
in my mind
takes a field day
in my dreams
because
I had a crush
and this kind of touch
will lead me
into a palm
that will close
on itself
(originally published in EgoPHobia, Summer 2021)
Because the patient gives me the wrong address–
because when I call my manager, she tells me
keep searching– I sprint with cheesy tortellini
down eleven dim flights, cursing broken
elevators. On the ground floor Panera
calls again and asks where are you? I say
in the hospital. After silence, I clarify– for
a customer– and she tells me who you seek
is next door. I lament the time I wasted
driving this black bag in a small vessel
to the wrong drop-off, and even more, time
spent walking from one mistake to the next.
Hospital lights hue everything sickly.
What is it I am trying to deliver? I look
through the inventory of my belongings
and, after the hand-off, bear the lightness.
(originally published in Freshwater Literary Journal, Spring 2021)
I made a mistake– chopping
onions and mushrooms
in the house
we both live I wanted to
cook us a meal
to forgive a prior mistake
though you say that’s not
how it works. Nothing
works since the new year
when I blacked out
and fell for another
in front of you
and everyone else
so we both rode
home crying in
subzero darkness
and snow and we
haven’t stopped since.
It’s the coldest week
in Ohio in years
and today we want
to stay in. We can’t
think of anything
else. Which is why
I didn’t notice
the plastic spatula drop
into the stovetop flame
and melt into an air
of a future cancer
how I only noticed
from the toxic smell
burning my nose
and though I cleaned
up the black scraps
with Goo Gone,
heat, and spoonscrapes,
the smell lingers
in every plastic product
(the new shower liner,
the Ziploc bags to carry)
every time we step
onto the white
tiles of our kitchen
(originally published in CERASUS, Summer 2021)
in this city is a familiar intersection /
brick / unlike the old: stone / spotted
your doppelganger waiting the stoplight
/ stalled behind a truck and called your
name / as I drew closer / turned green
you waved back / could not halt my car’s
slope southbound after hello / goodbye
all acquaintances become ruins / friends
who shift faces / places to call home first /
my mother’s / my skeletal wandering to
belong / shell possessing consciousness
beneath acacias / humid summer of moss
between the cracks of historic buildings
(originally published in The City Key, Spring 2020)
your nephew said I was the cool one
(ripped jeans) it gave me a kind
of complex nothing was the same
after that day at the zoo an old
chimpanzee contemplated death in
the corner of his cage how life
knows a multitude of ways to restrain you
I considered myself lost
in the crowd not answering my phone
nor trying to find you I know
that’s not feasible I mean we were kids
pushing kids blue by the aquarium
glass big-eyed fish couldn’t notice us
if they tried the big room shimmering
in the gray January light we trapped
(originally published in Visceral Uterus, Winter 2021)
My friend once announced to a room of strangers
my poems plunge them into pools of water
I guess that’s a phobia my inability to swim
for more than a minute and always on the shallow
side last night my Uber driver told me she tells
her kids be courageous be kind and went on
to talk about her Ziggy and Shane like I was family
On Tuesday I’ll let them go further than our back
alley what liberation! but then the world
five kids tugged at her jacket last week on the haunted
hay ride I get it I feel invisible forces pulling me
every cardinal direction at once yet clouds keep moving
and I struggle to stay honest I don’t want you
to know lust the long rope tight around
my neck leashed to the wagon and I throw straw
into brown grass to keep the chainsaw
killers at bay though I know the monsters
are actors wielding masks they sell me the part
of me I run from because I know anything
the world gives me lattes Lagunitas
love I return worse than when given
(originally published in The Orchards Poetry Journal, Spring 2020)
I stir potatoes
in the pot
when you text.
A mashed tornado
of cheese,
milk, salt,
pepper.
The goop
spins
into sustenance
on a cold
spoon.
(originally published in Fleas on the Dog, Spring 2020)