the Reserve longer
to get lost in
steep trails will sleep well
balancing spaces
in extended
phone conversations
to cut yesterday
my bike
summer with roads how
long all
the distant presents
all precautions everywhere
of daily life for a long time
(originally published in Modern Literature, Spring 2020)
I read that gun store
sales have surged, that
they have lines around the
chopping block. So we
decide when shots
rupture our street,
we’ll drive to my mom’s–
far from any city–
instead of hiding in a
closet in our basement
of centipedes.
Should we go there now?
No, we should wait it out.
We uncork a white wine
and play twenty games
of Trouble. Hours of
moving plastic pieces in
circles. Though trapped
in a bubble, the die
dictates our every move.
(originally published in Capsule Stories, Spring 2020)
Hands are raw from cheap soap
and scrubbing. We’re jobless now
so here’s the sink full of
better times we’re rinsing.
Let’s rearrange the living
room, drag the couch
from the side wall
to the back wall,
place the coat rack
in a different dusty corner,
treat the TV like
the god it wants to be.
There will be many
forms of worship,
this distancing.
Books. Cooking.
Writing. Pining.
Finally, I have time
to make music
and poetry but
I can’t put my phone
down– notifications
for each cog of society
as it breaks down.
You ask
should we hang
art on the walls?
I ask, what art?
(originally published in American Writers’ Review, Summer 2020)
You say today’s a great day
to walk the cemetery.
So we go. And there are
infectious monsters on our
street, monsters crossing
the intersection, monsters
carrying garbage bags,
monsters driving cars
with windows closed,
staring at us, fellow
monsters. And when
we cross the gate
there’s no one
alive around.
Just hills and hills
of headstones–
all of the dead
a responsible
six feet under.
(originally published in Capsule Stories, Spring 2020)
I guess a pandemic’s a time
to get wasted. I want to, too.
Badly. But crowds are universes
of a billion universes,
complex ecosystems in each
of us too small to see.
Most years I squeeze
into the tightest space
to buy the cheapest beer.
But Mom sells colognes
to the relentless public
at the mall, still pointlessly
open.
One of you knows someone
who knows someone
who wants to go out and
smell like sandalwood tonight.
And in the trillions of
tiny transactions we
do not know
happen each time
we step outside,
the actual virus
will make its way
into my mother’s
lungs. When
she– in her mid-
sixties– has to go
to the hospital,
but there’s no
availability
anywhere
anymore
to treat her,
I’m going to
remember what I saw:
you in a crowd at a bar
on your Instagram
stories. And I am
going to blame you.
(originally published in American Writers’ Review, Summer 2020)
the religiosity of longing
potatoes are my new church
long-lasting water-scrubbed love
in the oven eleven of them
I want you to count
carefully
our time remaining
provided what we want
we really want
is growing underground in vast distant fields
if we could see well enough to count
(originally published in HAD, Winter 2022)
Ripples of water
extend into days
we are wordless
with each other.
A storm breaks,
a dog whimpers.
We hear the groaning
Earth shifting
over countless hours
into the endless sea.
I’ve had enough
of windows,
where dreams
are a quick glance
over another
unfinished drink
in the middle
of the day.
(originally published in Count Seeds With Me, Spring 2022)