Last night, I dreamt I stood
on a tall stack of books, gathered
with others around a roof
like we were at a dinner party.
When I glanced down– finally,
from the top of my tenuous skyscraper,
I had to brace my shoe against
the house to keep myself
from falling back into reality,
but I did anyway, repeating
to the guests anxiety,
anxiety, anxiety.
I used to dream I’d get so high,
anything was possible. I entered a tower,
beelined to the elevator, and pushed
the button to the top. Sometimes
the platform was already ascending.
Sometimes the whole structure was.
When the doors (if they existed) parted,
the view from the sky was so rich,
I had to be dreaming. Deep tree greens.
Eternal ocean blue. I returned
to this view often, but stopped
near the end of my twenties. I was
itinerant at the time, my life
still an open road ahead
of me. A million meanings yet
to interpret. Not yet bogged by
a steady job but not quite steadied,
living off the promises of strangers
and the engine of my Ford Fiesta,
emitting exhaust into the atmosphere,
accumulating.
(originally published in Artvilla, Winter 2024)
hope
Summer to Spring
Sadness is a chewable tablet
in the fall. The riptide
returns with a little less
water in the hourglass
than yesterday. There is a bottle
with your name on it, a plastic
orange, pills you don’t believe in
but I believe in you and your bare-
branch will. Every year it all ends
and each time,
leaves appear again.
(originally published in Chronogram, Spring 2025)
Career
After I axed past the tree-lined path, I turned
the wrench that opened safes of gold with my own
hand. And then I hired someone with wrists
of a little more tension. I should have
never slept in the bed of wealth. I should have
known, in the night when every dreamer is
dreaming, I would sink deeper into that
endless hole of jagged desire until
I was thrust like from a slingshot
through my roof into a room
of mirrors where I seemed to be me,
but adorned in glimmering garbage.
(originally published in Academy of the Heart and Mind, Winter 2021)
Now That the End Is in Sight
Our shared strength wanes–
vaxxed, we talk about the end
like a peek of sunrise through
the blinds. Yes, beyond
winter depression we just had
depression and didn’t know
it. Spring sun’s out and
we are outside drinking.
Kids graze by like
the virus never happened.
But I was there. I was
strong. Even as a kid,
finding my father crumpled
on the floor and convulsing,
eyes rolled to the back of his
head during his stroke,
I calmly dialed 911
and waited until the
ambulance arrived, and
I was fine the whole time.
But when my sister
screeched her SUV’s tires
into our driveway, I let
go. A lifeboat. I ran
into her arms, crying,
not knowing how to say
anything I wanted to say,
and she just held me
and said it’s going
to be okay– but she
didn’t know. This past
year, I’ve held you to tell
you it’s going to be okay,
but how could I know?
Now that the end is in
sight, we wait for the light,
wilting in its arms to meet it.
(originally published in Capsule Stories, Spring 2021)
The Appointment of the Special Counsel
out of nowhere there’s a razor-thin wire hope
smoke from the top of the mountain and
we small spectators watching those distant trees
burn chatter among ourselves that finally there’s
a chance to reveal the truth about the source of smoke
and to be honest we’re terrified if there isn’t
a fire because we see it and wonder what else
is covered up because it’s there all around us in the air
(originally published in Rabid Oak, Spring 2018)
We Call Our City “Garden”
plastic cups
pepsi seeds
dandelion dumpsters
pickaxe
shovel dig
our potholes
drought soil
vegetables
waiting hoping growing
(originally published in Peeking Cat Poetry, Winter 2018)
Rebirths
I want a mountain
to sprout
in this Midwest,
to wake and find
a seed of good
in looking up.
I want to drive
a nail
into these clouds,
then sew its holes
to hold the rains
imperfectly
released.
(originally published in Right Hand Pointing, Summer 2017)
“A Man Bears Beliefs as a Tree Bears Apples”
-Ralph Waldo Emerson
pleading with a red delicious begging god for good
even though I cannot process Jesus I still chew and
spit seed and you walk over the guts of me with your
shoes on sidewalk in the sweltering August of laying
in grass whispering love between dandelions so much
we’re sprouting from dirt in ugly ways all thorn
and bloom overgrown with each other there are
no gloved hands around anymore to pull us out
(originally published in Bluestem, Spring 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)
Wave
when the continents drift apart
again
at least I know any island would keep you
in its palm
and stay afloat
while tectonic ghosts shift
the ocean
every cyan wave an old hello
when I last tried to hold your sail
in my fist you turned to water
but I hear the tide sing melodies
that must return
bearing my name in pewter clouds
and silver rushes the word into air
into a sailboat– I see shape
in risen mist
with hope the form lingers
long enough to lead us
to where we need to be
(originally published in SHANTIH, Fall 2016)