What simulation’s numb you ask
if I want children this time
definitive we boil Kraft mac
and cheese. I toss our meager sweet
potatoes in oil and ramble about financial
self-worth the oven nearly at four hundred
degrees. I can’t stop petting your shoulder
the ashy cat roams in the loam of our love
our newly swept hardwood the house
our home for now so limited already
steam from the inside a pressure
cooker of different timelines. What river
these converging lives to seek meaning
in the biological job postings some of us
are born to call. My dad was sixty-one
when I was born my grandfather clock
ticks nonexistent. We have gorged in all
our broken cabinets to rustle the blue
plastic grocery bag pile. I can’t stand
to live another day preoccupied.
(originally published in Flights, Summer 2021)
To curb today’s desire
to drink, I part the
lips of a childhood
friend– Tony the Tiger
on cardboard blue–
and rip the bag
a bowl of corn
to be my fix,
until the light
And when I
I didn’t think
(originally published in Goat Farm Poetry Society – Edges Zine, Winter 2019)
the gorge is endless & insatiable
there is a river, then many mouths
& there is your mother
in the next room cooking soup
& there is a mother
on screen bent over stovetop
with stepson rocking back
& forth into hunger
& now spoons clank
on plate before dinner
& your privacy settings–
a closed door
& now your father
home from work
& now the stepfather
makes his daughter behave
& your sister
walks in off the bus
& now the step-sister
removes the mushroom of her skirt
taking her brother by the name
of their familiar
which is all relative
to the mold of a home
all mildew & dust
spiderweb & tangle
& turn of doorknob
to walk years
through thin hallways
of broken light
fixtures & coughs
to sit in the dining room
all together & eat
years of steaming
garlic, basil, tomato,
(originally published in The Cerurove, Fall 2017)
(originally published in Street Light Press, Summer 2017)
The chicken soup swirls with the ladle.
Garlic and pepper steam the kitchen.
Limp horseradish soaks
at the pot’s silver bottom.
White meat swims laps in the yellow broth.
Animals do fine without bones.
The clock strikes a new hour.
The oven timer goes off
(or does it). Outside,
snow blinds the world.
Shovels conceal pavement.
There is no good way home.
(originally published in Freshwater Literary Journal, Spring 2017)