(originally published in Memoryhouse, Spring 2016)
literary
Gallery Hop
Walking through the galleries on High Street
absorbing art, the watercolors bleed together–
a blue-green pond carries the weight of ducks.
The familiar arches of the Short North beneath
gray clouds, strokes of paint whoosh cerulean
onto wall, a window with its subject unmoving.
I wait stock-still for the art to understand me,
as if a painted cloud could somehow awaken
within something akin to the sound of wind
on the lake in the presence of trees who long
lost their leaves, age marked by a reception to
desire. With whom will I share my barren age,
those outermost rings which mark the end
(originally published in ‘the vacant hinge of a song‘, courtesy of Origami Poems Project)
Chasing the Mouth of the Last Summer Storm
My Father Was a Beekeeper
I always knew my father was allergic to bees
but it wasn’t until his obituary
I learned he was once a beekeeper.
In those days, I hear, he prayed
to his veil– only to re-emerge, hours later,
having danced with God
under every umber swarm.
He was a gifted storyteller
but it wasn’t until his stroke
at seventy-four made me listen,
when his mouth betrayed his brain.
In his final years he would repeat,
the end of bees is the end of man.
So, heaven in the soft petals
scattered in the grass.
Young violets lined his coffin.
All I wanted was to listen
to stories he told before,
details I had forgotten.
Around the cemetery,
bees still glissando
through gardens not unlike the ones
he dug into his blackened fingernails–
honey and sweat, story-
pollinated requiems, harmonies
heard in bountiful
fields of bloodroot.
(originally published in Kaaterskill Basin Literary Journal – Spring 2016)
*Nominated for the Best of the Net Anthology
Arrival
We were the hardwood floor. Cold squeaks,
outstretched panther palm, red hand,
expected the chlorine. Wax splashed
baby oil eyes and it is citrus– cinnamon, acidic.
Where we were wanted, the pitchfork path
and jagged rim,
this fungus crust metastasis, you twirl
and twirl your index finger until it leaves.
(originally published in Scarlet Leaf Review)
The Sacrament of Confession in Catholic School
In kindergarten, I sketched a vagina as a circle
lost in strands of hair, similar to a scribbled sun.
The inklings of want would soon
set sail. When I showed the drawing
to my mother, she somehow knew what it was.
Her suspicious eye taught me life is the pursuit
of the scribbled sun. The first time I drove a car alone,
zooming up the hill toward the highway, I took pictures
of the sunset without watching the road, as if heaven
could be captured with my own fingers. At sixteen
I stole Snickers bars at my first job. The dollar store
went under. It could have been worse. I told the priest
maybe God thinks I touch myself improperly.
He said to toss the dirty magazines, meaning
I didn’t change a thing. In marching band, I pressed
my mouth against the trombone’s silver mouthpiece
and kissed when I blew, spit coursing through the instrument’s body
until it dripped onto the checkered floor. I didn’t lose my virginity
too early. By then it was too late. I have seen the L.A. River
rub itself dry beneath the metal bridges, withered and silent,
while the ocean wets perpetual sand, and all I could do
was run my fingers through the tide’s receding hair.
In seventh grade the school librarian declared if anyone
in class could finish A Tale of Two Cities, it was me.
I did not finish. I was twelve and mastering arousal,
turning pages with fingers on thighs inside of skirts,
skulking my hand up to God, to the first time
I knew sanctity– and the feeling, unlike faith,
was enough to make me believe.
(originally published in Corium Magazine, Spring 2016)
“I Wish I Knew How to Quit You,” Says the Moon
We know it is us
who wish to quit the moon.
We close our eyes our jaggedness
could drive the sun away but never
in the way our metaphors could.
Still we write the moonlight
into the sand and growl
at the tide
and again
when the tide returns.
We cry from the shape
our lives took to intersect–
an hourglass
filled with sugar,
or a snail. Or a million
hourglasses, a million snails,
a million glimmering shells
in a measured slowness.
You were talking about the sunrise–
but I never wanted to look.
(originally published in Thin Air, Spring 2016)
Short Return to LA
With every step, the air parted
and spoke your name.
Smog and all, would you forget
the jagged alleys where
we fermented, became wine?
Its knife cut ribbons, red
repelling the pressure of four A.M breathing.
Driving home from San Francisco down the coast,
each Joshua tree prayed
to a vastness greater than the desert.
The long, Pacific vistas became the sheen
of old Mustangs caught beneath shadows
of Wilshire’s vacant towers.
Our heels kicked dust
and browned the sky–
ever were the hours sand
on the beach, infinite and pearling
a microscopic glint…
the ocean still haunts–
its salt so embedded
in our skin.
(originally published in Rust+Moth, Spring 2016)
Dead Bugs in the Light Fixture
from bed we stared upward
at dead bugs in the light fixture
dark spots scattered so motionless
at the foot of what blinds and allures
you said I’m not going to remove them
I mentioned the blinds were parted this entire time
you said a homeless man lives across the street
but the cold and snow would prevent anyone from watching
the light was dimmed
neither of us intended escape
I learned a stinkbug can withstand temperatures
of negative twenty I had tossed one into snow
and it froze meaning its heart turned cold
in an instant and I expect it to
the shell lifeless and its own
dark spot in the snow
the walls were already painted olive
you said you could live with that
we guessed the time and now past midnight
you hadn’t done your reading for the morning
so I returned to the salted road
cruising past dark snow
and trees no cars
no other lights
for miles just ice
just cold just frosts
and frozen bugs
expecting spring
to bring some kind of meaning
(originally published in Ohio Edit)
29th & Vermont
bone-worn dog & hung head asked high kids holding lemons,
tangy hair in the air, zest & bitter tantalus–
went to dumpster-cat (blackberry feet)
sick of white gloves, guttural mews.
coarse throat, bumpy pink tongue trickled yesterday’s juices,
held the water, blue sky whirring, whirring– engines / exhaust!
icecream trucks! brahms overture, mary had a little lamb
escaped from jail with vanilla dripping down her hands–
pigeon following, little pecks, boots collected
sidewalk grime and ran, ran, ran!
ask the man skin dandruff collecting flies–
there’s no more room in this bone-white van
still raise you head high, tide bring ‘em to shore
hang you head on my leg say the moon help me beg!
(originally published in Eunoia Review, February 2016)