In your red dress you ask what you want
me to say to you but Lagunitas sips
the words I wanted in June out of me
leaving only amber hops & honey
to ooze from my mouth. You spit
a tumbleweed toward the wall
& it sticks. You say all I wanted
was to know you. Here I sink
into the quicksand of tan
leather couch. This house
was once full of orange lotuses.
We would burst flame
into bloom in the rooms
we set ablaze.
(originally published in Every Writer, Fall 2018)
these teeth
could unwedge
and slip
a piano
in my mouth
clunking
(originally published in Poetry Quarterly, Fall 2018)
kaleidoscope of the world–
you needed
the only beauty
(nothing
I can unsee)
everyone is a field
your head on his
shoulder
(if it can happen
again
it will)
(originally published in Grasslimb Journal, Fall 2018)
hi we were friends too open
door to old familiar face not
welcome you hand me plastic
bags of food not for me
then say the day is young
go somewhere green
in the city where you can stray
outside the lines and away
(originally published in Literary Yard, Summer 2018)
I know the pang of distance / ghost of friendship cold air
conditioned inauthentic rumblings no more / passage into
the familiar / sea / a yellow boat rocks near the Atlantic
shore / I evade the sun / seek any shade to shield myself
of affection / affected by the moon / far apart again no /
vacation for the heart
(originally published in The Blue Pages, Summer 2018)
Sara dances to a Zumba video on her laptop
at the kitchen table I eat chocolate chip cookies
the dog gets too close the moment she kicks air
he walks to a window to study his reflection I inhale
as Sara does the dog stares back exhales my reflection
consuming me but soon my body how my feet are bare
on coffin wood and Sara throws punches while dough
collapses in my fingers before I move grease to mouth
yes yes YES alongside the workout instructor to techno
beats a pitch of butter sugar flour down my gullet
I have accomplished an entire row from the baking pan
Sara says that’s enough but she means her water break
many minutes into sweat an eternity away from ending
she says her stomach hurts and I get it, mine too
(originally published in Indiana Voice Journal, Winter 2018)
I am sorry I asked you
out piss-drunk at Mikey’s
at 3 A.M. a month
after we stopped
talking on Tinder
you told me I think
the time has passed
which was the most
polite way you could
have considering
this man you never met
came up to you erratic
and slurring–
men can be time
bombs single
and desperate
actions to regret
I should
have apologized
sooner
(originally published in Umbrella Factory, Fall 2018)
Bluebird floating
blue across the redlands–
when did I become
isolated? You said
I had a home
to sleep, I just had
to ask but
I would never– except
I did the night we shot
arrows across your
driveway, my quivering
aim missed the tree
and nearly pierced
a squirrel’s eye–
(originally published in The Wayward Sword, Summer 2018)
Denver’s volcanic sunset
from the parking lot
was a longing
nature
versus
Instagram
and while my traveling
resulted in a love
I cannot
recommend enough
I know it was you
who told me
it was time to leave
the ocean
when
memories
are too nostalgic
to be healthy
(originally published in The Magnolia Review, 2018)
Six months after, it was April,
and I still lived in my Ford
after moving out of your house.
I drove to Oregon, found a waterfall
to pose in front of, my familiar wool
and cerulean jacket, a white t-shirt,
my scruffy beard.
In the photograph
the stranger takes,
I smile.
The sun glints off my face.
I wonder what you’re up to
and who takes photographs
of you– is it a stranger?
Am I a stranger now?
(originally published in Pif Magazine – Summer 2018)
