You are not
sad. It is the mirror
who is sad,
transparent and flat
holding first your eyes,
then body,
then the bathroom’s.
The way black mold
sneaks high
into ceiling, where
neither of you
will do anything
about it.
(originally published in Typehouse Literary Magazine, Summer 2017)
I cracked an egg
with a butcher’s knife
watching yolk seep
yellow cracked surface
rough on my hands
two halves and a spill
in the sink
I have a whole
carton little hopes
silent things never
living never words
I open
each heart to beat
to whisk to swirl
and wish a tornado
in this bowl of force
and gale in golden
pool in cauldron pan
and spatula pressing
hard over white turned
head caked edges
center sliced over
all this heat blackened
burnt but good
enough to eat
(originally published in SPANK the CARP, 2017)