my mother logs in
watches lives unfold and bend
others offer words of glass
water droplets
like there used to be something there
something that refreshed and renewed
(originally published in The Stray Branch, Spring 2018)
Mom
After the Stroke
mom’s hair grew thick
with words she couldn’t say
occupying folded spaces
on the dark fabrics of her skin
and though she continued
eating heavily the fruits of life
the mirror told her stop
(originally published in Steam Ticket, Spring 2017)
From Mother
Live a long life, son. Eat noodles on your birthday.
Al dente. Do it every holiday, so I can live on long
past done spaghetti which sticks upon the wall,
frozen in time against the whims of dun sodden
dust and entities beyond the sounds of crying
from the bathroom at 2 A.M. beneath the black-
dripped canvas of luminous lights. The grass, uncut,
reaches far now above the frizzy tips of your hair
(originally published in The Birds We Piled Loosely – Issue #1)