in the coffee shop
you tuck a bundle
of lavender
into the v
of your shirt,
aim it at your nose
then type furious
emails to co-workers
gently
gently
(originally published in Crack the Spine, Fall 2018)
Poetry
Marshmallow in the Microwave
Water molecules cause the inflation–
how the heart expands several times
in the span of too-few seconds.
The depths of my sweetness,
you call suffocating– the airbag
after collision. A time bomb–
we promised to open the door
before making a mess,
but we kept growing inside
ourselves. Body inside body,
slow spinning made us dizzy.
We were fine before. Small,
we never knew the depths
of our grandness.
Even then, we were sugar.
We opened our mouths
and licked hot the walls.
In the process of swelling,
we long to burst, to stick
to a heart that holds
the excess.
(originally published in Umbrella Factory, Fall 2018)
Kompromat
in a moscow hotel room
shadow brokers partied
with stolen american
cyberweapons over the
counterintelligence
they wanted public
the americans
drank everything
and partied through
the night
(originally published in Scarlet Leaf Review, Summer 2018)
Valentine for Sara Rosenblum
Fuck fake corporate holidays–
ok, I said it.
Drained
our hearts fighting capitalism
but the system says February 14
is the best day to say you love
your person, to shower them
in candy and chocolate until
they can taste no more sweet.
This is
our first Valentine and I miss you
terribly in these long hours
we spend at places we’re paid
to spend our lives in to survive
and what else would we spend
on but sweets?
In the past,
I’ve wanted to take a baseball bat to
Valentine Day’s piñata and smash
out all its greed–
this year, though,
you are my Valentine, and every day
I spend with you already I want to bury you
in a mountain of CVS candy and chocolate,
hold you close to me and whisper
I love you, I love you, I love you–
ok, today’s a good excuse.
(Originally published in Magnolia Review, Summer 2018)
2017 Mantra
Build bridges, not walls,
though bridges ice faster
than roads we traveled–
hundreds of miles,
only to boomerang back
to before, while thousands of
armed windmills gasp for air–
the sunset through the bug-
stained window moves faster
than us toward a semblance of home–
swirls of clouds quivering
into the arms of weeping
willows simply
weeping–
(originally published in The Wayward Sword, Summer 2018)
Silica
i carry infection in saliva
like a point of pride
see, my city reeks of bone
tall skeleton skyscrapers
i’m numb again
as dental drill enters me
year after year
what birthed my decays?
raised to desire new
wants every day
wanting even wanting
my dad worked at a ford factory
after the great depression
churned out a new kid
every few years
seasons of rust
spreading on steel
here’s the sunset
he’d wake us to say &
spend the days molding
the yard
rough hands on saw
that was satisfactory
to him
for me oaks are cold towers &
grass not godmade
took a clump in my mouth
from the graveyard as a child &
i swear i tasted
death
but could not digest it
i’m but a skeleton
all life’s experiences
slip through me
masticating childhood
no pondering
the future with mom and dad
scooping fries at ponderosa &
we’d always go for seconds &
mint ice cream after
(originally published in Burningword Literary Journal, Fall 2018)
Soon
Broken bottles on the bridge
above the blue Olentangy.
My time in this city is
limited, as is my body,
the future a compromise,
shards from the persistence
of believing in transcendence.
The sweltering sun pummels
my skin, exposed, as I wait for
a sign to cross the river road.
(originally published in indefinite space, Spring 2019)
Fear of Dancing
I am a tin pen
so you ask when?
I write on the floor
kissing the spot
where dancers writhed
in a style I cannot recommend.
Bodies bent like thin trees
in a hurricane. A reporter standing
in the midst of ominous gray
waiting for the signal to speak
so she can get out soon,
roads slickened with saliva.
(originally published in The Bitchin’ Kitsch, Fall 2018)
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)
Electrons
It is possible
for electrons like you
and me
to have a long-
lasting interaction
before the transition
to zero.
Start strong,
move fast,
conserve energy
through longer
wavelengths,
whale songs, wet
lips. Hold
until light slips
through the spaces
of our fingers:
phosphorescence.
Glow. We know
probabilities
for starting and ending
are the same.
After the initial
burst, let’s become
a more stable state
we won’t gradually
weaken.
(originally published in Thirteen Myna Birds, Summer 2018)
