At first was suffocating.
In my throat was a sandbag.
After I practiced pushing the door
to escape, once I learned how to remove tension–
both arms hot dog-style past my head–
I became a floating head in a dead, still ocean.
Breathing itself was a plane running the runway–
the only sound in the universe.
(originally published in Brief Wilderness, Winter 2024)
If you are going to pass out
on my bed on my leg in the
middle of the afternoon, I
want to pass out, too, though
I’ve drank my coffee, been
unemployed for months, and
lived before then long in the
shadow of love, an animal
sheltered, content, hoping
for a small breath of light.
(originally published in DoubleSpeak Magazine, Spring 2023)
In memory of Chris Hull
friends don’t
wait for rainy days
to die
there is never
a metaphor
in the weather
the sun laughs
as it always does
when I receive the call
I find the nearest tree
to brace myself
with shade
it’s the only darkness
seventy-six degrees
warm breeze
the car
approaching the hospital
still takes her living
to work
at being alive
(originally published in Muddy River Poetry Review, Spring 2017)