Show a baby grass
for the first time
yes
there will be more of that
(originally published in SAND, Spring 2023)
metaphor
Puzzle Deep
Here’s a pony you don’t like.
This time, I’m holding you
and telling you the truth about
how, at camp, you fell into a
ditch of clay and nearly
trampled to donate– you
thought– to the afterlife a fly
on a turkey carcass. Life is
full, a morbid castle–
a bird plunked in traffic,
an idea of being able
to survive atop the hood.
Your sister split the life
into more than a half,
a divorce from life and
tenant. The cost was
the roof, and you paid
someone to fix it, as
loyal as you are
to the world, soap-
scum coating it. Please
forgive yourself. I thought
you were a legend. Please,
never step toward the rail.
(originally published in Divot, Spring 2023)
Poetry Publications
I have cocked arrows at meaning
in libraries, coffee shops, cafes,
restaurants, bars along both coasts.
I doubt I’m getting close but found
a spot near my house with large
windows in view of construction
cranes, a crosswalk, a man eating
yogurt on the sidewalk as cars
drive past. He’s doing something
about his gut; me, I’m just trying
to write from the heart, my art
wending itself out from the street
into a mail truck, a magazine
placed in a box in an envelope
for my new hands to open.
(originally published in Dreich Magazine, Summer 2021)
Celestial Egg
“They’re not deviled eggs
because Lucifer was once an angel.”
-Anth
At the bar you order
a small white plate
of celestial eggs.
Holy mayonnaise
yellow topped
with chives.
They are gulped
except for the last,
which you offer me
through telepathy.
I am the egg.
When I stop throbbing
is when I live
so I hold it high
in our five spotlights.
The arena cheers.
I see many doors.
Five floors:
on the bottom, death,
but each row above
a plethora of possibilities.
In your car, you say
I am feeling unmoored,
my shoe half-out your door.
The renaissance is what we
make. It is brown paint
over everything, the oil
light– you ask, what is on
your mind? I don’t know
how much you know
but I felt the warmth
of the machine beside me
thrumming on the street.
You were on the phone,
I think. I glared– I think
the end is coming
faster than fresh ideas
or the universe’s
rate of expansion.
The fact you drove
saved me from running
through the dark city
in the center of my existence.
In the shadow room
inside my house,
I did not process
emotion. The throbbing
sprain in my foot.
It was that death
issued a rain check
when I smacked my head
in the basement bar
of the indie theater.
I was the movie
everyone watched.
I left everyone waiting
for me to emerge
from the sewer. I swear
I will not group up next time.
I want each synapse
comprehended. To succeed
would be the stretchy fabric
of my living. Nylon
for the brain. Procrastination
for the ascent. I say you need
not worry because I am not
worried. Depression is a shovel
deep in soil and I am buried
in my mind, thankful
to be given a second
heaping of kindness
when I never deserved the first.
Hard to learn you
when my body is uniformly
jagged and growing
hairs sharp like knives
eternally out of every inch.
I want to be soft
with you, but once
we eat, all mysticism
is lost to process.
(originally published in Academy of the Heart and Mind, Spring 2023)
Our Neighborhood Giant Eagle Is Closing
Everything is on sale. Where once was bread
now empty shelves and strangers scanning aisles
for the last shred of good. As it closes you say
you are a little sad, but it was never your favorite
grocery store. We have been fighting a lot lately–
from our favorite tv shows, to what type of dog
we might get, to which sugary cereals to pile
into our cart with all these cheap products
that don’t fit together: taco shells, toothpaste,
store-brand mac and cheese– would you believe
a month ago this place was stocked with everything
we need? We try to talk about marriage,
our deepwater eyes zooming through the dark
into a future where we guess what will become
of this building while seeking sustenance we know
other shoppers already bought the last of.
We need a sign to give us clearance to move on–
then the cashier, ringing each item slowly
as if savoring each would save his job, repeats
thirty percent off, thirty percent off, thirty percent off,
and a little more every day.
(originally published in Ohio Edit, 2018)
Emily Cut Her Head off with the Musical Saw
between her legs the fast song halfway done
her knees strangled the sound she bent out
her violin’s bow popped off the crowd’s
gasp the banjo player slouched drummer
the steady beat they played on and watched
like a song can continue after music
has slumped from a body
(originally published in Gambling the Aisle, Summer 2017)
Band Room
there are many instruments that we are
and many more we are not
such as we are sometimes saxophones
who have not memorized love songs
but we have eyes to read the sheets
lips to blow into trumpets tubas
muscles to crash cymbals
pound the bass drum at night
we remain off-tune no matter time of day
arcs of trombone waves flute trills rainbows
the inhaled swampy atmosphere
of slide-lube and falling domino fingers
down the rigid clarinet air
melodic staccatos of sixteenth-notes
every piece celestas
on wet reed floor
the band room holds its breath
waits for us to play something
(originally published in Beech Street Review, Fall 2016)