When I think about it, I already lost my train
of thought. What a metaphor! With the desert smoke
into the sunset, et cetera. I think my pockets
would have been lined with gold in the olden days
then I’d grow gray. What gives
me the right – the right – the right
to become my own oppressor?
(originally published in Writer’s Block Magazine, Summer 2023)
clatter. chew
through apples (nothing).
half a meal, half a pine,
half of what we hoped for,
if.
the way a core reveals itself inedible,
though we knew.
from day one, bites
and bites.
sometimes the juice sweetness
overpowers slow rot.
it was early on, and worms
had yet to emerge from their holes
in the ground to greet us.
all we had to do
was wait for rain.
(originally published in First Literary Review – East, Winter 2018)