All words weird
trees all limbs
living novels
flipped to final
page the spine
of a god you
never could
believe in me
with constant
joking about
our future or
is polyamory
how we end
it gently?
(originally published in Delicate Friend, Spring 2023)
I.
After these exhausting days
who knows why I yell to no one
the things I yell on the way
to my car after work: gravel
grass and hill road buzzing
in the deepening sunset.
II.
The only relief I ever feel
is sunlight on my face
when leaving work–
the temporary confusion
of unsheathing one
unwanted part of me.
The breeze
greets me
like a once-friend,
my name
on the tip
of her tongue.
III.
Each minute– each second– beyond
when I am supposed to leave
wilts me. I look longingly out
the window mud-
stained in sunlight
I did well in the past
to ignore.
IV.
I get upset
having to spend
the remainder of
my meager self
racing
the end of day
light. I fight
my way through
traffic lights,
red in surrounding
eyes– to arrive
at my familiar
steps, already at
the foot of dawn.
V.
Morning
has that air
I like– half-
asleep possibility,
a natural neutrality,
a newness only possible
half-dreaming
beside the waving
branches.
VI.
Tonight, I spend my time
on an ice cream cone
with you. Under the full moon.
It makes my teeth hurt
but worth the work
a random hour a week
or two ago, when I was
sitting at my desk, wanting
nothing more than to come home
and see you.
(originally published in Statement Magazine, 2023)
If we are sap-
stuck together, two
pines intertwined
in gentle branches,
it is inside
our forest
I want to be
directionless:
our trajectory
up the hill.
Up.
(originally published in *82 Review, Fall 2022)
My hand gentle on the vibration of DQ’s back.
We ascribe memories to animals. Anthropomorphism
is our system. Kingsford’s scent lies on fewer and fewer
surfaces– we vacuumed his hairs, changed the covers
this August of grieving, and in bed we say
the living one dreams of her human family. If ever
there was a before in this cat’s life, if ever she could
recant her past to us– what I hate about the cage is
not the sick animal inside it, but that I can’t explain
where we are going, or why, just he needs to trust
me, beyond all his mewling (we pass a fish truck
on Penn Avenue in sunlight) – trust me: where
we are going will end your suffering.
(originally published in Kalopsia Lit, Spring 2022)
I have gone out for karaoke but the world
says otherwise. There is a line I think not
to cross. Surely someone I know, surely a boundary
full of music and atmosphere to let me be
myself and allow the frogs to consider me
a peer, rhythmic applause with their throats.
What a swamp I have become–
I wish I were the Everglades,
as relentlessly mosquito. As hot. As I am a thousand
miles from my destination though
you say I am close in this way. The roundabouts
of the city. How long have I not known how
this would end? That it would
end? Back of the line.
(originally published in The Wise Owl, Summer 2024)
When the pain becomes
knives, you– bent over
by the mirror, clutching
your abdomen– straighten
your hair, put on make-
up. Beautiful people
get treated better. That’s
a fact, you said as I
drove. This is our third
ER trip in three days,
and today, finally, the
trauma team identifies
the piece of you that
needs removed. After the
diagnosis, I notice the sterile
painting on the wall.
A field, and what little
it contains. I talk–
an attempt at distraction–
imagine this being the last
piece of art a person ever
sees. Brush-stroked
delphiniums in the
grass, swaying,
the lake then light-
house that ascends
into blue. You look
for a long time.
(originally published in In Parentheses, Winter 2022)
between us, only
a centimeter wide.
Didn’t used to be
there, this space.
We lay leglocked
in bed miles apart
now, this fissure.
In California, they talk
about the next big one
around the corner,
perpetually, and
before I moved
I had nightmares
of tsunamis consuming
the coast and then my bed
and woke up drenched
alone in darkness wondering
if my next one was around
the next year’s bend–
a lover to drown
beside, mouths lapping
seawater, tender word debris
we’d strain to hear or otherwise
imagine.
(originally published in The Seventh Quarry, Summer 2023)
For David and Anna
Rain is never insurmountable,
and the sun never gets old,
though we plan to, together,
to grow with green things
sprouting at our feet. We
watch new trees become
wise while the landscape
shifts, as it must, and though
Earth spins briskly– almost
beyond what we can fathom–
it has order, being as small
and in love as we are.
We stand on our plot
of land, firm though
flung through time and
space, the universe we
made forever expanding.
(originally published in The Vineyard, Winter 2023)
I often disappoint myself,
though half-reckoning is
a wreck in the making.
Insensitive interstate a
random number generator,
impartial to chaos. This rush
hour pileup from heart
to mouth. I say I love you
like it is always summer,
but today marks fall. Why this
world spun me into Pittsburgh
eludes me. This is not a yearning
for old light, coated in cinnamon.
I laid my head on your chest
and the rest happened like history.
(originally published in Adelaide Literary Journal Anthology, Spring 2021)
First baseball game I’ve seen this season– game seven
of the World Series, Houston versus Washington. A sea
of orange in Texas. Scherzer versus Springer. Joe Buck
talks about muscle injections, pinched nerves, breaking
ball– full count. He says this series is full of big swings,
big emotions– isn’t that a normal week? Dad watched
every Cleveland game. Ever. For a summer I did,
too, but October is chillier than usual. Last week, we
buried my oldest brother. We used to play sports
games– Triple Play 2000, Gran Turismo– on the
basement’s cold, brown carpet, where all physics
hurtled toward inevitable destinations: a ball singing
through the air into a blurry glove, or tires spinning
through some grainy tunnel. We’d trade wins, half-
luck, but there was always a conclusion. Last year,
I held his hand in the hospital. He squeezed my
fingers and said what he couldn’t with his eyes.
Last week, he didn’t get the kidney he needed.
When Washington wins, I see men cry on each
other’s shoulders. When my brother dies, my brother
cries on my shoulder. I cry on his shoulder.
And when we look at each other,
we find someone we both miss.
(originally published in Knot Literary Magazine, Fall 2021)