When my father retired, he could not end
the work– sunrise blurred to sunset
sculpting trees within the canvas of our yard.
Soon, he said, you will wear my work
on your hands. But after he passed, my hands
would tremble leaning ladder onto tree,
snipping branches off the living
limbs.
(originally published in U-Rights Magazine, Fall 2020)
Growing up with an Old Dad
meant he was always dying, inches
closer than the rest. Mine survived
the Great Depression to grant me
a shorter bridge to bloodshed
in our lineage, my father’s great-
great uncle Stonewall (the Confederate
general) and Andrew (the genocidal
President). I don’t want to be
that close in time to them. My years
must stretch as far as they can,
long enough to outlive that legacy.
(originally published in Impspired, Spring 2020)
vocals rise night static the beach house we
sway to midi music call ourselves karaoke
machines what disappointment to not be
whole humid June familiar shadows
encroach the move I crack my song an egg
to thee to thaw cold exhibitions of the
bottle another popped Corona to thirst
for grand experiences cheaply the tide
a tape loop I do not sing the steady
hand of a lyric but rather the water
(originally published in Sybil Journal, Summer 2020)
in front of a hundred
eyeless peers I push
my glasses up & then
I hear me speak (o lord
this tin tunnel was I born
in aluminum are my horns
hidden from sight I
am pulling at my hair
searching for the devil
in my throat) I loved
the old recordings
VHS & handheld &
then I hear me speak
(crush the volume down
my thumbs in my ears
to find ocean & space
look away to the blank
shut lids & reach
for the pine cone remote
somewhere on this
cold egg shell couch
among the crumbs)
couldn’t my larynx
have received a more
commanding inheritance
before my parents passed?
I’ve been singing into
graveyards to ugly
featherless songbirds
and then I hear me
sing (or footsteps
thumping down the
path paved to lead
others to grieve,
newlywidowers
seeking silence
in the umber
shade)
(originally published in Hello America Stereo Cassette, Winter 2021)
I can’t talk about money I have none
I am green in love in the black in life
the debt of my ancestors I am
someone’s deficient ancestor
though my family is dying
one at a time deeper
into ground and deeper into soil
the sound of my sister
sobbing though she can’t be here
at the funeral she would if
she could
there’s always next time
(originally published in Ariel Chart, Winter 2021)
Salvador Dali
liked his spaghetti
soft as can
be: drooping
off the plate.
But Dad always
said stop playing
with your food!
I wish I could
have figured it out
before he died. I
would have told
him I was toying
with time.
(originally published in Ethel Zine, Summer 2020)
It comes in waves, the grief, though you laugh
as you say so, because we are in the Atlantic,
children again, uppercutting large tides,
and I never learned to swim, but the saying–
the metaphor– is true, the water is relentless,
and we were states away from the hospital,
where your father was, when you got the
call, and later, in our hotel’s game room,
there was a balancing act– you, your family,
the ping-pong paddles on the black table,
the plastic balls rolling slowly onto the floor
at the end of another meaningless game, the
bouncing, then physics, entropy ending–
how else to reconcile lost time? This dusting,
this airing out, now, swimsuits soaked from
the salt of the sea, this fabric, this residue
dripping off of this vacation into the old
Civic, the broken A/C, the windows’ open
breeze, silence of the road lodged between
green hills, so endless, our breathing.
(originally published in Creative Writing Ink’s Monthly Contest, November 2019 Winner)
The machine shut down after clicks and pops– the screen
flickered bright then dimmed into near-zero
visibility. You said our love had become that,
crying into the dark on my chest. I couldn’t feel the tears,
but we feasted this Thanksgiving on the blood of birds
and the kindness of vegetables, this ritual of melancholy
holidays at my mother’s home, the knife pushing
deeper and deeper into the flesh of tradition, and you
said that’s not what you wanted to become, some reliable
device upon which to take for granted, and I apologized,
I didn’t know why you were crying and I wasn’t, so you
turned the lights on and laugh-cried until we fell asleep
(originally published in SHARK REEF, Winter 2020)
This house, she won’t want
to sell. Where once voices,
now the TV knobbed up.
She raised us right
here, boiled soup
cold nights before gathering
at the table. Cold nights
now under blanket
still shivering. She won’t
cook anymore, no
guests. TV talkin’ loud
blank conversations. Least
the room flickers in
the dark. That door-shutting
sound. An actor comes
home on tv to say hello.
Mom dreams off recliner.
The show fades to black.
(originally published in CERASUS, Summer 2021)
The summer shattered the year
Dad passed, and Mom’s grief
became the fall; to cope, she
wrote her first poetry, wrote
sheets of ice that turned to
winter months of seeking
meaning in icicles– living
alone, she praised the blades of
cold above her door, believing
Dad her angel sharp enough to
pierce the heart of loneliness.
There was no Thanksgiving
that year, no Christmas.
The frigid core of family–
she kept writing our story.
She would not let us forget.
(originally published in Z Publishing’s “America’s Emerging Poets Series: Midwest Edition,” 2018)