I am done with dating
apps. I would like to make
you dinner: salmon, rice,
brussels sprouts. You said
you know what I want
for my birthday over a bed
of nigiri and leaves. I rolled
sushi once in a cavern
of doubt. I couldn’t stop
shaking. The nervousness–
I mean, the lust– grew
on your vines by
your side door.
We had your home
re-keyed, then there was
trouble with the locks.
Couldn’t keep the lovers out.
(originally posted in Discretionary Love, 2025)
How wriggly, how slippery
these beaches of men– like sand
between your toes, in your toenails–
they washed up in the storm to take
up space wherever they can, however.
(originally published in Euphemism, Fall 2021)
I.
tonight it is free to clink
glasses with luxury
at the steakhouse downtown
my first
Manhattan
since Day One
I have been
red meat squeezed
of all its blood a puddle
at your recommendation
on our plates a weight
to our long
day
but hey
a hundred bucks?
you produced The Hunger
Games
& film’s
a hungry hundred days
believing
the dream is not a struggle
II.
trout on dry
land among
the cattle
wriggling
out the net we lose ourselves
in work
yet
gorge
on appetizers
bacon-wrapped around
each other
the shrimp
is not taboo
nor endless
with buttery bread
I can’t end
this twelve-hour
shift
III.
I long to spend
free time free
but you close
your eyes when
you talk to me
like you can’t
bear to sit
at the same table
in the down-
trodden way
I say hey
this could be
my favorite
restaurant
over and over
to no one
(originally published in bluepepper, Spring 2023)
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)
umami fish in dead cold
sticky rice clings to
gum. take another slab– tell
yourself you are the
ocean, that you will
chew through sea-
weed.
(originally published in Hobart, Winter 2018)