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)
pandemic
Sock Puppets
Black wig and grimebrown,
reach your hand to my hand.
Mimic a person (sooner and
sooner no one remembers) in
pretend interaction (if I could
color wry smiles I would
cover the world). Your old
dweller hobbles to mine,
withered from the silence.
We guess at the true age
of this era (graininess
invisible and anxious).
This is no old film.
Stuffed in sneakers, we act
through dilapidated cotton
(too far away, too tight a fit).
Let us breathe.
(originally published in The Globe Review, Summer 2023)
Friday Evening Preceding the Election, 2020
This could be the last weekend
before certain uncertainty.
Yes, I am a secret pessimist.
This year has been good
for that. I lost my line
of work due to pandemic,
but started a new one
born from it. When you
were crying from your
campaign job, worried
your boss might not
let you go to your
needed appointment
on Thursday, I told
you what you’re
crying about isn’t
your Thursday
appointment.
We’re afraid
of what we
may be living
in on Wednesday.
(originally published in Setu, Fall 2024)
Please Don’t Come Home
we need not gather
rice in the trash sticky
with friends’ hands
still friends their hands
a question of what we collect
these rakes our long limbs
(originally published in Penmen Review, 2025)
On a Zoom Call with the World
the crows are stage left with nails in their beaks
it took centuries for modern civilization to collapse
but it is happening now and we are all here for it
looking toward the future (naïve to hold a telescope)
I see ants collapsed just outside a giant mound of
peanut butter powder coated in poison we were
feeding ourselves (and we fed so long) with words
and power with which we chose to destroy ourselves
and we are all here for it drowning in the rising seas
(originally published in Flights, Fall 2023)
Quarantine (Day 60 – May 14, 2020)
you threaten me with a walk
outside I acquiesced but the rain
came anyway and ended the plan
for temporary freedom in the confines
of codes covered up for the necessary
health & safety of others I love who
might love me if I could hold their
gaze for more than a moment
(originally published in Ink in Thirds, Fall 2023)
Bro
Get out of my life with
your election signs. Don’t
tell me what stakes
you stuck in your front lawn.
Come on. I know you’re not
a boomer. You say we’re at
a crossroads and I gaze
into the neighbor’s yard–
used to be bushes concealing
every outside path. Now there’s
someone on a lawnmower severing
the bonds of grass, in intervals,
each direction I look, each time
I visit home. And we comment
each new motor makes it harder
to reach each other. Mom’s
neighbors want to beat the rain.
We just built this fire in the back
of my childhood home. These
bundles of sticks my mom gathers,
waiting for us to come home
some early October Saturday.
At my brother’s first mention
of herd immunity, my sister
suggests we seek more kindling
in the tall grass. The air is
parched but we must keep
burning. Firewood left from Dad’s
death we’ve already forgotten.
My brother says we’re gonna
lose all this country fought for–
Dad survived World War II
only to shatter his ribs on a fire
hydrant sixty years later. Mom
would not let the coroner dig
into his carcass for an autopsy.
In his later years, Dad would keep
a hose beside our bonfires. Still,
we hunch over heat together,
burning hot dogs on forgotten
skewers. We dredge the past
again: a year after my father’s death,
cooking hot dogs over walnut husks,
one of you said there could be
an industry for the timbered taste
coating the tenuous meat we’ve
shared over the years.
(originally published in Alternate Route, Spring 2023)
Fall Guys
gonna be a good dive
pink windmills spin forever
I thanked you already
I am always thanking you
consider this next apology all ready
dizzy heights
I’ll file in the hi Sara folder
maybe I will choose to drop
down to blue under-surface
where everyone’s at I miss that
you mean I’m supposed to grab a tail
with these conveyor belts & keep it
I don’t know my role
but the walls
have googly eyes & I don’t mean
the stampede at the checkered line
these same damn races every time
I’ve never watched the procession after me
don’t worry you haven’t done anything wrong
yet
the situation’s complicated
continue
(originally published in One, Fall 2022)
On Sassafras the KEPT ONES
In the alley toward the strip yellow
plant caution tape walking through trash
valley to Iron City Beer no one
needs to pack bags stepping on
white rocks on Sassafras the KEPT ONES
under clouds. Wonder who makes
it out alive. Plastic bag with Lysol
wipe flapped in the wind when tossed
in the trash. Another event stupidly
beautiful to admire. When I look away
I could crash into sunflower NO PARKING
signs. What masochist places
these in the middle of a long busy stretch
of sidewalk? Now bees won’t leave
me alone in this heat
(originally published in Spinozablue, Fall 2022)
September Pool Rental
Lost that social
muscle, backstroke
that splashes all the
words my mouth
wants to say but
needs weed
for, the weeds
overgrowing
in the far
away wild.
My back
patio’s
unbearable,
its familiarity.
I want
a pool, or
someone new
to dive into
my mind
and stay
a while.
(originally published in where is the river, Winter 2021)