there is no end
to wanting a better
anything. I have
driven through
stop signs on rural
roads in afternoon
light envisioning
the reality where
I have arrived
faster at our house
and you’re happy
about it for those
few extra seconds
but time is fog
that dissipates
anyway, being
that yesterday
we loved each other
and today we
are sitting at the top
of the stairs to our
bedroom petting
the cat who survived
our downfall
and mourning the one
whose heart clotted
because of it. you
notice bubbles of
water in the blue
textured wall and
we burst into
the day’s remainder,
moving temporary
belongings around
again, this time
with no effort
of emotion, no pull-
each-other-closer
because the house
has seen its share
of endings and
beginnings, I’m
sure, if we are
to frame it in
those terms
already the memories
have taken control.
(originally published in OPEN: a journal of arts & letters, Fall 2024)
moving
A Poetry of Place
Because Tony once said he knew
Columbus and Los Angeles the way I do–
I have not yet developed a poetry of
place for Pittsburgh. Three years in and
still the surprise hills, the way I always
feel– still– an outsider wending my way
through confusing streets. I’ve worked with
Kailee’s dad longer than I lived with Paige
and still we haven’t had a deep conversation.
Everywhere I go there remains a sense of some
thing deep that needs explored. The way
I walked Los Angeles streets at night–
the endless sprawl– must be the same,
but Pittsburgh’s smaller, the graffiti
more familiar, how it’s all a sketch of home.
(originally published in Vilas Avenue, Winter 2023)
Bananagrams
Hard to say goodbye a bunch
of jumbled words
this freeform
scrabble of knowing our
ups and downs two
poets at the game café
hovering over August
and detonate
this limited time we have
cloaked ourselves
we slap plastic
tiles and yell peel
racing not to say goodbye
I’ve got a few days left
in the parking lot after
we clutch each other
unsure whether to cry
in the authentic light of sunset
(originally published in Freshwater Literary Journal, Spring 2022)
Drinking a Rhinegeist Truth
10:33 AM on July 4th
& if that ain’t some
gunslinging fortune
my drinks have teeth
can’t mix with coffee
I am trying to stay awake
I am trying to stay
a firework of politically conscious
colors
most mornings the soup of ritual
I gnaw at the aluminum’s tab
when my beer has ended
I am not satisfied
no
I am not satisfied
with this ending
(originally published in Datura, Fall 2019)
Cloud
the raindrop
life (transience
is a home)
loneliness
forms
on clear days
rising out
of reach
& always
when you wake
(originally published in Literary Yard, Summer 2018)
Transient
I need new faces
clothes drawers
opening
closing
I used to find
spacious greens
county lines
my hometown
I wandered
through the smells
of mom’s scrambled eggs
faucet running
disposal clogged
with garlic
understand
I want to be
a bullet train
memory
I’ll tell my future grandkids
stop moving
opposite
of me
(originally published in Neologism Poetry Journal, Summer 2017)
*Pushcart Prize Nomination