When I think about it, I already lost my train
of thought. What a metaphor! With the desert smoke
into the sunset, et cetera. I think my pockets
would have been lined with gold in the olden days
then I’d grow gray. What gives
me the right – the right – the right
to become my own oppressor?
(originally published in Writer’s Block Magazine, Summer 2023)
If able to shield the cat who lives
with me from loud and unexpected noises,
I will press him to my chest and carry him
over to the staircase before pushing
down the coffee grinder, cup my hands
to his ears once the vacuum starts
running (though a gentle act of palms
on his party-hat ears is already enough
to make him sprint in the opposite direction).
Kingsford has grown used to gunshots on
television, but I can do nothing for the
barrage of fireworks leading up to
America’s Independence
Day, nor conspiracy theories
which run rampant in the sky
(because what better a home
for fake facts than fireworks–
impossibly deafening bursts of light
in the night). Recently, I have been
joking that I can talk to him one-
on-one in a shared animal language,
and he looks to the wall to relay
the story of some spider who skulked
across chipped paint in the morning
hours, above where I slept,
deep in a dream louder
than any external noise–
enough to quell the sort
of revelation that makes
me believe our futures
are fucked. I wake up
refreshed enough to wait
for the day’s new din
of whatever war’s
beating on our screens
and walls and
my heavying heart.
(originally published in Subnivean, Winter 2021)
The sound of fascism is for a small
while less intrusive than the work
in progress on your neighbor’s wall,
which is also yours. 7 A.M. drills,
hammers infiltrating space.
Sun crystals shining through
bathroom window might say fall,
could say end. Dracaena sitting
in darkness on a different sill
amidst loud nearby noises.
Gonna see my family for the first
time in months. Whose side are they
on? I squeeze the lavender
satchel handed down from not-
my-grandma. All was passed
down from stars, but that is
a different story. Eternal light
in dust. What disgusting precedent.
The disturbed mornings
in which simply drinking
coffee hurts the backside
of my lower lip. Fish flesh.
I don’t know why the liquid
slashes me. That’s why
I drink so quickly.
(originally published in mutiny! magazine, Summer 2022)