the provision
the carcass
provision
the carcass
a carcass
to provide
the carcass
blaze
(originally published in Roi Fainéant, Fall 2023)
Short
Our Ritual
I kiss the cheek of my cat
she hums in her sputtering
engine the comfort
of our ritual she twitches
on my chest stares
deep into my eyes
our noses
sniffing
each other
truth is
her teeth
reek of yesterday
but I am trying
to rid myself
of the past
year
(originally published in The Gorko Gazette, Summer 2024)
Relief
This
gorgeous
day! I leave
my office to
join my lively colleagues– quick silence. Tense.
I say nothing, leave, and receive a text:
it wasn’t you–
PHEW– but our
buzzkill,
Will.
(originally published in Chewers by Masticadores, Summer 2024)
Summer to Spring
Sadness is a chewable tablet
in the fall. The riptide
returns with a little less
water in the hourglass
than yesterday. There is a bottle
with your name on it, a plastic
orange, pills you don’t believe in
but I believe in you and your bare-
branch will. Every year it all ends
and each time,
leaves appear again.
(originally published in Chronogram, Spring 2025)
Tomorrow
we pretend to know
tomorrow
that we don’t
is both the plight
and light
in living
each day
a slow burning
candle
that dies
inside
the next
(originally published in impspired, Summer 2023)
Jar
I crack– then leak–
always expecting honey,
hummingbird, candy. Look–
I want to be with you
in health and heartache. But
I know the sorrow that eats me,
I see my eyes, and you, the one
who loves them– in countless
shades– you ask me to keep.
(originally published in Ariel Chart, Spring 2024)
Sleep
eyes close, a portal opens
to rain, silent homes / shields for
the wet and yearning. . . escape, enter, in
speckled ceiling light, visions of rice
and effervescent soaking / murk
in nonchalance, the 21st century–
has it ever been different?
(originally published in Poetry Super Highway, Fall 2024)
Bump
The world
is a squirrel
in the middle of
a country road
and– phone out,
music loud–
I can’t tell
if I ran it over.
(originally published in Ink Pantry, Summer 2023)
Sensory Deprivation Tank
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)
Promise of Morning
broken wind through bent window
tonight estimates life long enough
to breathe sunlight
(originally published in Winamop, Winter 2023)