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)
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)
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)
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)
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)
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)
broken wind through bent window
tonight estimates life long enough
to breathe sunlight
(originally published in Winamop, Winter 2023)
Hide these holes from death’s dentists.
Suburban wealth I heard is best eaten
slowly. We can be the beasts we were
warned against. My mouth and ear
are hollow. Follow endless footsteps
into forgettable forests. For this I sing
a song I hope you won’t remember.
(originally published in ARZONO Poetry Annual, Summer 2023)
People ask you to make an
idea out of something you do
and they say it so casually
you don’t get what it is
they are asking for.
(originally published in children, churches, and daddies, Winter 2023)
One without burdens. Without–
never mind. I’ve lost mine. I’m
brainless, more or less, the long
er I live. It feels cumulative. A
long tunnel. I’m reaching to
ward the exit. My arm can’t ex
tend enough to leave the sleeve.
(originally published in ActiveMuse, Spring 2023)