we wore our best hunter-green waited patiently
as men took a different kind of field we craved
sustenance a resurrection a flight a waiting
by window in the purple light under wrong
tin roof what we tossed into sky we threw
away our wing-missiles pigskins of self
talons landing burrowing deep out of view
what craft drunk disturbance in the flapping
february frigidity that beat against our jackets
yours the bird slick knit on surface mine
a thready childhood blanket to keep no one
and nothing not the least of heat my heart
drinks beside you as it waits for the game
to be good but it never does and always was
(originally published in Fast Pop Lit, Fall 2025)
february
Weekends
You said it was your best birthday weekend ever.
You sang on stage in a large bar surrounded by friends.
When we turned our bodies into rhythm, pulsations,
and streamlines, the physical elements of snow and rain–
of kisses outside in blowing wind, and people honking,
winnowing by, I wondered about unicycle riders, the way
they wheel tall along sidewalks, straight-thin razor
cutting sound– their legs in cycled motions suggesting
let’s drag this out until we can’t
(originally published in Home Planet News Online, 2017)
Warehouse Beach
The warehouse art gallery could never be mistaken for the beach,
even as curators charade sand across the dancefloor,
make us remember desire. Violins strike the throbbing air
with an electronic pulse, a horsehoof beat activating
the summer IPAs we drank beforehand to create
our summer selves. It ends. You end. At home later on
we watch documentaries where owls hunt forests for prey.
I pray we will soar but never hungry above branches.
Mostly I pray for our hearts to not be plucked raw, how stranded
and helpless we can feel in a new town while the world whirls
a thousand miles per hour– we stumble through sliding landscapes–
sand on concrete wails for sun, for sunset wind to whip
through industrial, unfinished interiors. We dance, or run,
until light draws herself from the ocean’s muted stone.
(originally published in Crack the Spine, Winter 2016)
Blizzard
wind like a taiko
along the crown of palm
I shiver with the window
(originally published in Vine Leaves Literary Journal, Issue #14)