You say you.
I say I.
You say bell.
They say
flowers
father
mother
blossom
music
ring
finger
wing
this spring. these strings.
(originally published in eGoPhobia, Fall 2019)
You say you.
I say I.
You say bell.
They say
flowers
father
mother
blossom
music
ring
finger
wing
this spring. these strings.
(originally published in eGoPhobia, Fall 2019)
A cave, a raven horse-
hoofed sunlit human. Your journey
to know you forward: yourself
tar. Orange toward opening.
Darkness, fire, form,
wing.
(originally published in Indiana Voice Journal, Winter 2018)
the snare head’s reverb post-strike
the cord plugged into the socket for days
bug stains on the window in sunlight
the black screen of television
two twin mattresses under one blanket
burnt bulbs beneath a motionless ceiling fan
condensation beside the coaster on the table
(originally published in Hobart, Winter 2018)
spilled honey clings to black wires
connecting the world my lifeblood
laptop nestled in her shell safe from fingers
goldenrod shirt covers the old burns
the pinewood ashes coat my nostrils
the harsh wind blows crooked conifer to the verge
almost to fracture the window waiting
to kaleidoscope glass a body as canvas
hardwood red lust to cleanse gathering dust
rain pats the chair-infested patio drips of
laughter boomerang from slippery brick
and the blonde coughs from beyond the dark
halls of shed fur & grime
(originally published in Freshwater, Spring 2018)
You cut my face
from a magazine,
pulled tanner grass
in L.A.– how you
lose your sense
of color with nothing
but blue sky and sun
and sidewalk cigarette
stains, everyone dead
in their own way.
(originally published in Califragile, Fall 2017)
You are not
sad. It is the mirror
who is sad,
transparent and flat
holding first your eyes,
then body,
then the bathroom’s.
The way black mold
sneaks high
into ceiling, where
neither of you
will do anything
about it.
(originally published in Typehouse Literary Magazine, Summer 2017)
Someday you will like
the way you look.
You are a mirror unbound
to reflection
but you are present
in raindrops,
and puddles learn
to love their
craters.
(originally published in Eunoia Review, Autumn 2016)