I could be walking
on water down
the beach minding
my own business
a heron Jesus
and still at the splash
of your all
encompassing wingspan
I would not know
the difference
between a wave
and awash
(originally published in Avalon Literary Review, Summer 2024)
a red serpent lives inside me
keeping venom in my blood
and I don’t mean this as a sin
or shame but rather a reality
like toxins in the grass and
in the fruit we eat, everywhere
everywhere silent killers lurking
in the stems of tomatoes growing
rapidly, the chemicals in me
and in your child, oh god,
there’s a serpent in your child
and if we yank it from his throat
our serpents will bite and bite
until we forget the garden
(originally published in The Beatnik Cowboy, Winter 2024)
God, understood here as a necessary being,
exists in my filthy shoe. The impossibility
of nonexistence shows good weather is
vague. Sunshine during workdays, storms on
weekends make me want a world of reverse
gravity. My filthy shoes, then, muck
the clean white clouds of heaven.
(originally published in A Thin Slice of Anxiety, Winter 2023)
Perhaps divinity is in devotion– pages of text
over thousands of years, eternal rambling
in the clockwork ticking the days to etch in
stone the wings I’d searched away, blind
faith in running water, erosion of the endless
nights I’d stay awake to eke out meaning.
(originally published in Penmen Review, Summer 2022)
The earth contains a hundred trillion terabytes,
which is a quarter of a God. Which seems low
given my dejected Catholic upbringing. Sorry,
in my clogged thoughts I forgot you were listening.
It is beyond me to forget myself. There is light
on the other side. I can see it in my mind.
(originally published in Cacti Fur, Spring 2023)
Being in marching band did not mean I avoided
everyone else in our Catholic school of zombies
marching to the beat of our grandparents’ music–
tradition in Massillon, Ohio is sacrosanct. God
first, then football. Green fields of broken heads,
eternal salvation the end-of-life touchdown.
I find tradition such a demeaning, self-fulfilling
prophecy. That there could be an expiration date
for the best years of your life, all of which
escaped the womb of your tiny hometown.
(originally published in Fine Lines, 2022)
the bathroom fan. now I am asleep. no
god has been asleep as long as I remember.
there was sleeping in church my pew
a long loungechair. white women
singing sunflower and epistle. to
write a love letter these days means
you are able to buy bread. too many
starved. hearts empty tanks. fill
a cup with holy water. pour into
brown grass. I have never been a man
of faith. I open plastic packets without
looking. I consume what’s inside.
(originally published in Poetry Super Highway, Summer 2022)
My father despised even the word
Satan. Believed our house cursed
if ever I were to bring a Ouija board
home. And he preached the dangers
of using the word fool– an insult,
he said, from the mouth of Lucifer.
As a family, we went to the theater
to watch Titanic, but didn’t stay to
see the ship sink. We left soon after
previews due to the devil’s language.
What set him off was a god damn.
We weren’t even allowed deviled
eggs. I never ate one until I made
a batch in my twenties with an ex, but
the mess was too mustardy. Dirty
dishes on the counters of a cramped
kitchen. Today– this slushy Christmas
Eve– a friend drops a fresh batch
of demons on our porch, and I hold
the first egg in my hand, a chalice
almost holy, the swirl a flourish,
a handheld soft-serve mountain
top. I devour the lot– all six gifts–
without fearing the sin of gluttony.
(originally published in SPANK the CARP, Winter 2023)
a sea of cars
parting people drive
home I am a delivery
man feeding fish and wine they
snap their fingers I arrive
in the flesh who else
would they wait for?
(originally published in Cirrus Poetry Review, Fall 2019)
stretched out on living
room couch long-
limbed nights seeking
God in conversation
all the crumbs we
leave under cushions at
times wanting to leave
you told me just believe
but I’m comfortable
sprawled mumbling
our conjectural
disagreements
this kind of love
even at odds means
a faith your brain
has a heart to rest on
(originally published in Carpe Bloom, Winter 2019)