Now that the hurricane
has passed with clear
skies, I have a chance
to explore my new
neighborhood.
I cut down trees
in my overgrowth
of memory. A long
driveway leads to
an abandoned mansion,
brown-bricked and sturdy.
The ghosts inside
I would evict completely
but I have some questions–
how did your love end?
I know one side
of the story, this mess
of leaves the formless
speak, garbled
waves a fog’s
difference. In how
I hear– in your
perception saying
what? Over and
over, chewing
the sustenance
I was fed. Ruins
rising in the moonlight
and you do not believe
in astrology or ghosts,
anything supernatural
except God, yes,
the bubbles of doubt
float into your vacancies
of faith you placed
between your thumb
and forefinger,
the Leaning Tower
of our trust
that could have been
plucked from
any old hairline.
(originally published in Dandelion Scribes, Winter 2025)
memory
A Light Snow Through the Window
Out of all activities
to do in the world,
we choose to watch
what melts. The sugar-
frosted grass, low hills, love
of our red-brick building.
If our conversations
are jet streams, if high-
altitude, high stakes,
tension– let me
please leave and be
reborn as something cold
and forgettable.
What dinosaur wanted
to become a fossil?
In our years together
we accumulated enough
to burrow deep into
the earth. Millions
of years from now,
what some sentience
will discover is that
we were once separate.
(originally published in The Field Guide, Fall 2023)
The Shrubs of Doubt Were Misplaced
Still, the dogs watch me from behind
a fence when I walk the opposite route–
against traffic on Gross Street–
the view changes enough to convince
me I am in a different place in my life
with its industrial constellations,
a parking garage sparkling with hovering
hospital lights while skeleton neighbors
decorate homes for Halloween and blue
jays all seek a different weather. Maybe
October chill has knocked a new belief
into my teeth. Brick by brick I walk
by buildings of my past that survived
into the current, too, and a leaf
from an unseen tree floats
onto the chest of my charcoal
jacket. I pin it there
for the days I will forget.
(originally published in Ariel Chart, Spring 2024)
Jesse and Andrew
were two good friends in Los Angeles,
and in last night’s dream, Andrew announces
he quit acting, though we knew him as a screenwriter,
because he found success in Ohio, and thinking back,
in reality, we were journeying toward the same adolescent
dream, green stars, and we pursued when we were heartbroken,
worn-out, reckless, and last I saw Andrew he stuffed quarters
into the jukebox at gold-lit Birds, repeating Sussudio, commenting
on every woman at the bar, and I didn’t speak up. And Jesse had
returned that day from Thailand. He was sad and I was in love.
I had a chance to see him again– last fall, New York– but he has
a kid now and I could not muster a bus, or to revisit reminiscing
the dreams we shared, what we had to wake up from
during our long, separate searches for meaning.
(originally published in Ink Pantry, Fall 2024)
Childhood Backyard
Oblivious to the approaching hard-
ships of the road, the sleeping leaves
with years of nourishment wake
with you in your mom’s backyard,
under dark sky and pine boughs.
Those autumn days the wind blew,
singing, but remembering the song
has become too loud. Place your palm
against the bark to soften its voice, cease
the rustling. Come inside now. Walk
through your memories like in a dream.
(originally published in EAP: The Magazine, Summer 2023)
Tamales at Andrea’s
At her Penn Hills home an endless view
of rain green wide windows. With sink hot
faucet water we tear banana leaf a piece
of wallpaper press the masa they prepped
into dried dark a sturdy table.
Drop sauce, fork pork, wrap ribbon
makes pride and we learn to live
again. Almost a year still fresh
the big bowl of dead animal we gather
around. Andrea says steam in leaf
adds floral flavor, a life
to death jiggling within us–
oh, sweet touch of camaraderie,
hugs on a late December
Saturday. You were afraid
we started the day too early, but
we are in our mid-thirties. I wanted
to begin yesterday the festivities
that let us remember why we
remain alive– brown butter cookies
and the love, so much love in the living
room. When we get to the presents–
having already unwrapped our proud
banana leaves, there are Penguin
classics, band t-shirts, soy candles
but what we’d trade for anything–
white elephant– is more time.
(originally published in Triggerfish Critical Review, Summer 2024)
The Well
bucket
hangs
on
frayed
rope
the old
man
could
not
recall
how to
drop
arms
moving
straight
down
how deep
how
fragile
the mind
is now
and how
fast
it falls
as soon
as
control
slips
away
bits
of wood
in
dark
water
echo
a
hollow
splash
(originally published in Willow Review, Spring 2025)
Strangers with Appreciation
IN BOUNDLESS EXPANSE
BETWEEN JOB AND SILENCE
NOSTALGIA AND THE EVER-
LIVING PRESENT I SIT IN FRONT
OF A PROJECTOR SCREEN
COOLED BY THE WINDOW
UNIT I CAN DERIVE NO
MORE MEANING TO VIDEO
GAMES NO
it is the purpose of a stranger to dream
for me to be engaged so in his fever
your creativity is what I want
now that I don’t have the rapturous
privilege of losing myself
but haven’t I
wrestled with every single
whim every whistle
of the wind that calls for me
I answer
for a little while then reach then
ASK NO QUESTIONS
FOR ANSWERS I COULD NEVER KNOW
THE MEANING OF THE STARS NOR
MY PLACE WITHIN MY BRAIN WHERE
THE SOUL SITS
it’s sick sometimes in
how I want to be someone else???
but I look at old pictures of myself
and think he’d be so happy to see
how unrecognizable he is to himself
(originally published in confetti, Fall 2023)
Obsolescence
The only photograph of us we ever took was
at Thursday’s Lounge, on an ancient phone from
ten years ago. Your boyfriend at the time snapped
us, smiling, in front of the liquor selection. Neither
of us realized it would be years until the next time
we would meet again. Since then, I have acquired
a mountain of phones, piled somewhere in storage.
And while I want to find this picture for some kind
of momentary joy, I cannot hope to find one such
antiquity in a landfill of antiquities. I know the
memory has become warped, muted, fuzzy.
Since I’ve seen you, we have both compiled a
mountain of loves, relics embedded within
ourselves. The brain’s complicated wirings–
circuitry functioning enough to remind me
we were, briefly, more than a photograph.
(originally published in AvantAppal(achia), Spring 2023)
2008 Fragment (College)
There is a picture of you standing
in a blue IKEA bag in the chapter
room because we wanted to find God,
me and Jack and Chris. That led us
to IKEA in Robinson, Pennsylvania
and I knew not to fall asleep
in your car but I did anyway. We
were toying with the brand new
Garmin. We knew the route it wanted
us to take was not the best but
we took it anyway because technology.
I wasn’t the one who was going to tell
the lady who locked us in the parking
garage we got stuck in that we needed
to be let out. You did, and I have the
picture in my memory of you telling
her. I wish I remembered the words.
(originally published in *82 Review, Fall 2022)