At first was suffocating.
In my throat was a sandbag.
After I practiced pushing the door
to escape, once I learned how to remove tension–
both arms hot dog-style past my head–
I became a floating head in a dead, still ocean.
Breathing itself was a plane running the runway–
the only sound in the universe.
(originally published in Brief Wilderness, Winter 2024)
light wanes on blue picnic days
the ants we call our own (a mound sacrifice
I sacrificed…)
I know I could never be a father
there is too much darkness in me
you ask me to explain
butterflies pound against
the insides of my cheek
and grind against my teeth
it would be so easy
to field disturbances
I don’t want
any part of that
the red clamps
tight inside my guts
(originally published in Avalon Literary Review, Fall 2021)
between us, only
a centimeter wide.
Didn’t used to be
there, this space.
We lay leglocked
in bed miles apart
now, this fissure.
In California, they talk
about the next big one
around the corner,
perpetually, and
before I moved
I had nightmares
of tsunamis consuming
the coast and then my bed
and woke up drenched
alone in darkness wondering
if my next one was around
the next year’s bend–
a lover to drown
beside, mouths lapping
seawater, tender word debris
we’d strain to hear or otherwise
imagine.
(originally published in The Seventh Quarry, Summer 2023)
(originally published in Typehouse Literary Magazine, Summer 2017)
I am scared to death
of death.
Not just the big death
but tiny deaths, too.
All the bulbs are burning out
in my house one by one.
In living, we accrue small darknesses.
Mirror to mirror: void
where my eyes should be.
Hung mauve towel.
Vines of black mold.
Plastic ringlets steady
stained curtain infinity.
The silver shower faucet was once
a sunflower dreamed of fluorescence.
Now, downpour, no bright
for every prayer.
Gallons of black shower
(plead with God just–).
Gobs of
gobs and gobs of hair
cling to the drain.
Genuflect in the porcelain pitter-patter.
A feedback loop of weeps.
Hot water, cold water,
no water.
(originally published in Isthmus, Winter 2016)
We stare at stars until we feel
the cavalcade of stones shift beneath our shoes.
There is an entropy to the universe.
What melody does the rail hold in her ivories?
Do we listen for an engine to ignite
while we tangle in the grass, in the cold,
in the tremble of tracks? Where else to go?
We tremble, too, waiting
for a song from the vulnerable rail
and her sharp of distance.
If the train will not move I still want
to create landscapes with you
and callous ourselves hurtling
past engine content in her still
into worlds where I become wind,
and you, fire–
with a palm on your cheek,
we’re the mountains,
playas, beaches, moors.
All a blur. A quiver.
(originally published in Isthmus, Winter 2016)
we walked in the shadows
of our shadows to blend
with other shadows
this rectangular geometry
took dominion
over winter
plunked lilies
into the lakes
we never knew existed
(originally published in November Bees, Summer 2016)
close your eyes,
so you forget.
or remember.
whichever submersion
buries deeper
the salt within you.
it is only you afloat,
naked in the darkest night.
your body is a dream sailing
a sea of decomposing dreams,
patches of brown grass
underneath the auburn leaves.
release what you can touch,
especially if it is nothing.
by then it should not matter
if your eyes stay closed.
when they open, find comfort
in what you cannot see.
(originally published in Skylark Review, Fall 2016)
When the city stops buzzing, streetlights
invite reflections onto storefront windows.
Finally, the distortions make us young,
removing cigarette burns and ash.
What love is reserved for the old? The bridge
seems sturdy in winter but more slippery
with its blue-streaked ice– and mouths of
gravel seem ageless. Time rescinds her reach
toward the cradle of sleep–
maligned shoes end on a cold porch,
slathered in a salty grit. Snow on
the doormat waits for extinction.
(originally published in “the vacant hinge of a song“, courtesy of Origami Poems Project)
