This matches the atmosphere of pre-pandemic Ineffable Cà Phê–
seated at a mahogany table stealing vibes from strangers. Ahead:
a Jennifer Lawrence doppelgänger wearing monotone, who types
quietly in a portrait mode of cedar wall & soft lights, spooning phở;
next table over, prospective homebuyers: a Kyle Wolff in
a psychedelic Dixie Cup shirt alongside his partner, crumpled over
with a realtor who holds printed-out pages of wanted foundations.
The agent leaves and they scroll Zillow; there is a void where you
used to be; October sixty degrees spent inside, no regrets this
Halloweekend. I spy on everyone. Nebby is what Pittsburgh calls it.
I look up to see a white bowl covering a face, noodles dangling
off lips chased with chop sticks. The amber light’s flatness inspires.
Indie Interpol playlist a throwback to spending days at Muggswiggz
in Canton with Tony, soliciting strangers on Myspace for randomness.
I haven’t changed as much as I wanted. Crumbs from the bread
of my chicken bánh mì, scattered across my laptop. I swipe them
away, but dislodge more in the keys the longer I type.
(originally published in Picture Journal, Fall 2024)
ohio
Dream with Bus Driver
This fork in history could veer
wildly left, though the bus driver
announces he forgot his glasses
at home but memorized the route.
Don’t worry, I have been this way
before and before and whatever
obstacles you see before me
and before you belong in just
those places in the long telescope
observing the passage of time
(originally published in Linked Verse, Summer 2023)
Full Glass of Water
I am shirtless. I am thirsty.
I drink an eternity
from my full glass of water
while my two friends kiss.
In the old house. The kitchen
with the steel island
I had lifted my glass
from. New lovers!
I stand
by the sink
filling my glass,
over and over
again, the faucet
a waterfall,
bountiful,
something like love–
it quenches,
but you must keep filling.
(originally published in BlazeVOX, Spring 2024)
A Sustained Sound of Longing
My heart– a poem, a bass line audible
in Cleveland. You’re in the Heights now,
further away than ever, but it’s fine. I left
you first & felt a sapphire tinge in every
step. How always we wrapped
our bodies in caution tape
tangled in each other anyway.
I couldn’t drive a straight line,
couldn’t speak without stumbling
into potholes leapfrogging the walk
to your apartment on North High.
Inside, your dog was on a leash,
wagging his tail at a ghost
he could not know.
(originally published in Poetry Salzburg Review, Summer 2023)
Mine
Columbus.
Victorian Village.
Coming home.
A dog sometimes.
Desire.
Living.
The squeeze.
Without thinking.
The act.
The thinness of good.
How much regret.
At a party I said it.
Stung.
What?
The direction of history.
A rough shore.
To never return.
(originally published in JAKE., Summer 2024)
Operatic Pop
I have lived enough to knife
through precious indifference:
time to say goodbye, sang
Andrea Bocelli through my
childhood’s echoing eardrums,
banging through the baseball
game of stressful situations.
How I overcame my fear
of public speaking was when
I was believed in, once,
to deliver Wayne’s wedding
from obliteration (green
in the cleaved landscapes
I scampered fully across)
and the contentment rings
high in vibrato today.
(originally published in Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Fall 2023)
What Will We Do with What Dad Kept?
Frisbee thrown by my brother at
our mother’s home, rising with wind–
he asks a question I can’t catch.
(originally published in International Poetry Review, Spring 2025)
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)
Tilted Reminiscence
I had my arm looped around your shoulder
at Zub’s always thinking of infinity inside
gooey strands of fried mac and cheese bites–
now I’m thirty-four, scared of heart failure.
I stand at my desk at work on a foam pad
with bumps and ridges. Anything to keep
me active, though I read Bruce Lee died
at thirty-two. I don’t know how I did not
know that until now. If ignorance can be
counted in the days I have forgotten, my
respite won’t be remembered. Perhaps the
paper clips that stab memories together
aren’t so horribly misspoken, though I
speak without stopping more than I used to.
The highway through my windshield grime–
at night, when it’s raining– everything is
chance, or I need better glasses, or escape.
I look ahead and forget all that is behind
me, inconsiderate to the rearview lights
who are trying to guide me home.
(originally published in ZiN Daily, Winter 2024)