bucket
hangs
on
frayed
rope
the old
man
could
not
recall
how to
drop
arms
moving
straight
down
how deep
how
fragile
the mind
is now
and how
fast
it falls
as soon
as
control
slips
away
bits
of wood
in
dark
water
echo
a
hollow
splash
(originally published in Willow Review, Spring 2025)
of walking down the street at night, red
and blue sirens wailing past, and people
being shot in front of me, their bodies
dragged across the sidewalk
out of view.
Maybe because I’ve binged
The Handmaid’s Tale
or work too much (stress
the swan song we stay singing).
Whatever the cause,
I live
in America, America,
America.
(originally published in Good Cop / Bad Cop: An Anthology (FlowerSong Press), Summer 2021)
The host stares blank pages at us,
mumbles in the vicinity of lobsters
in that overcrowded blue tank.
The waitress sings the menu,
points to CrabFest (overtures /
variations) – we are here,
always, for Cheddar Bay Biscuits,
the perpetual stream birthed in wire
baskets that make our intestines scream
minutes after paying
the check.
It is July 6th and fireworks explode
over trees
and, of course, we think them gunshots
because we are in a public parking lot,
our bodies full of grease that could drop
any minute in this America,
two-thousand nineteen.
(originally published in Toasted Cheese, Fall 2020)
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)
Easy you observe the brimstone gold
plated on a perch and the gulls above
broadcast O ye airwaves message
static
this white noise raging in the country
someone forgot
the clamor in the background of the FM radio
(originally published in New Pop Lit, Spring 2018)
out of nowhere there’s a razor-thin wire hope
smoke from the top of the mountain and
we small spectators watching those distant trees
burn chatter among ourselves that finally there’s
a chance to reveal the truth about the source of smoke
and to be honest we’re terrified if there isn’t
a fire because we see it and wonder what else
is covered up because it’s there all around us in the air
(originally published in Rabid Oak, Spring 2018)
I have been trying to cough up the bald eagle
lodged in my heart, but only feathers have landed
wet on this dirt. I love this country, but this is too white
for me to say. Too long have I been silent in privilege
while our nation’s darkest forces– white-winged
and fire-breathing– cast their manifest, the harming
kind of loudness. There is no one in my life who
admits agreement with white supremacy, but I also
know there must be– and if silence is complicity,
I must be no longer. So I cough out the beak, the flag,
the gun whose silent bullets I have already fired.
I am so sorry for the silence–
everyone I haven’t known I have hurt.
(originally published in Rise Up Review, Winter 2018)
What you do say is prayer don’t burn and die
when passing through the atmosphere.
Yet, somehow, meteoroids do–
though sand-sized, they have bodies
like bullets, sometimes
copper, sometimes steel.
We’re talkin’ heaven’s ammo,
a hundred tons pounding Earth each day
unnoticed. Down here, you claim
able to speak with some cosmic, faraway force
you’ve never met while keeping closed your mouth.
You claim telepathy, so this telepathic ability
how your thoughts move healing this world
of the aftermath of bodies. Tell me:
how does God respond?
And you say God,
God protects the faithful.
So, God’s His own meteorites
cratering His house, hallelujah.
(originally published in Ohio Edit, Winter 2018)
buffalo roam
the sacred land
pipes and protestors
clank and clash
signs
God in front of the lens
smiling gold teeth
cup of reservoir water
in hand (with straw)
I did this
he boasts
god
isn’t it beautiful
the way people rally
sinking ships
a river knows
only the land
it flows through
(originally published in Sheila-Na-Gig Online, Spring 2018)
You have good reason
to be self-confident.
After all, this is what
the fortune cookie said.
After a dinner portion
of greasy lo mein
from New Peking.
After CNN reports
the president’s firing
of the FBI director.
This is a gross abuse of power,
and there is a gross amount
of noodles inside me.
Despite that,
I have good reason
to be self-confident,
I suppose.
I am reasonably certain
I still have a job.
I am reasonably certain
I am not under investigation.
There was no backdoor
deal struck with the restaurant
to ensure this would be
my particular
fortune.
All I did was order
the noodles via telephone.
Then I drove to the
restaurant to pick it up,
face-to-face.
I used my credit card
to pay for it, but
I will pay the bill.
In the plastic bag
they handed me,
there was a brown bag.
In the brown bag,
there was a white box
with my food in it
as well as chopsticks,
napkins, a fork, and
the fortune cookie.
That’s it.
All I’m saying is
if you don’t believe
me, investigate.
Anyone who says
differently
is reasonably suspicious.
(originally published in Landfill, Fall 2017)