cartoons were a kind of Bible
inside the music a gala
of fleeting buzzing bells
in my present
looking at the world
from the periphery of wine
glasses stashes of
gutted fabrics worn
I swore I said
I’d wait for you
I’m sorry I’m
ten years too late
for the wedding
lips I sipped
on the tray
I could not
(originally published in Peeking Cat Poetry, Spring 2019)
I don’t think my dad would be proud of me
writing poems on bar napkins
after that fifth happy hour whiskey.
This is how I want it: to be disengaged
by the time my uniform cuffs roll
to my eyes in stupor to avoid the
solemn eyes of ancestors in the sky.
Transparent Mufasas and steely voices
judge me like America judges Kardashians.
The reality is you can rewind the DV tape
back to the beginning tomorrow and show me
the footage of my stumbling into the driver’s seat.
The cosmos roll in their graves.
Meanwhile I am the last child
who can cast the line onward–
past, present, future.
A syzygy from birth.
The headlights wane.
(originally published in Jawline Review, Spring 2016)