How wriggly, how slippery
these beaches of men– like sand
between your toes, in your toenails–
they washed up in the storm to take
up space wherever they can, however.
(originally published in Euphemism, Fall 2021)
gross
A Bad Job of Holding Onto
The last time I lost someone was autumn.
The leaves were auburn.
My nose, clogged with symbols,
blew wind into tissue into bin.
Honey-siphoned sweetness
became broken fingers–
piles of laundry across the bed.
The city needed new clothes to wear.
(originally published in OVS Magazine, 2017)
Trombone
Froghead
Froghead, keep your slither distant
the empty land-cradled bridge
reeks of constructed debris
a lost ditch
speak: your tongue can’t hear you
Mezcal distant as the nearest soul
(originally published in The Legendary)