1.
by the window
your headlights
in the driveway
2.
behind
the blinds
3.
from
inside
this
blanket
(originally published in Fleas on the Dog, Summer 2020)
Short
Tootsie Rolls
my body was destroyed
to confuse the witness
red feathers fell
in dust and dirt
I am not compatible with the moon
I kiss my mouth
illness has become a tooth
return to the deep pit
black in its whole
(originally published in Setu, Summer 2020)
missing home
nights were alive with music
wine crushed coffee bones faded
light to sleep dustballs curled
were swept away
(originally published in Winamop, Winter 2023)
Eggs Balloons
we inflated important
words empty laughs
being sound balloons
attached to inflatable
poppable hearts buy twelve
in a bag for a dollar eggs break
the yolks watch that grease
pour into morning pans
(originally published in RASPUTIN, Winter 2020)
June 22, 2019 – Morning
If there is no coffee
in any of these storefronts–
if I walk up another hill–
scattered branches, lily weeds
protruding from the pavement,
roses bending out of vases–
take me into the tree-
speckled shadows
before I rest there now.
(originally published in Winamop, Winter 2020)
Live
Each morning wake to glimmer.
Faucet water runs to the end of water–
I am breakfast cloak, frozen pizza
and a skinny. Reduces
and creates anxiety.
Though poor
I have water I want more–
start drinking
(originally published in Sybil Journal, Summer 2020)
Moment (October)
spring wind
palette of butterflies
golden hour
the shuffled-card memory
flipped through photos
the month passed
(originally published in The Field Guide Magazine, Fall 2023)
Hide and Seek
We turned off the lights and counted
to a hundred in a house more familiar
than our aging hands. I found solace
deep in the cockroach closet– you,
beneath the brown beanbag.
We waited in these surroundings
for our lovers’ eyes to adjust.
We never wanted it so quiet.
(originally published in Academy of the Heart and Mind, Summer 2023)
Annie, to Say the Ocean Hasn’t Changed You–
Tune-lover, beachcomber sculpting
seashells from stones to listen for ripples (nothing
loaded but time) and I have written– haven’t I–
distance into oblivion (that tidal bass a metaphor,
its vastness deepening) & am I not a shell of was
once, was gripping to any mast to lose
the sea, change quivering– I swear– every molecule
of my being, I must (from the must) of any old
ceiling, the dust it lends to fading carpets,
the ones we walked and walk on today
(originally published in The Broken City, Summer 2021)
Google You
if you could search through
your life you would
page upon white page
the deserts of texas
memory in a buggy
toting high school calculus
sleeping it off
the usual
what’s expected
(originally published in Winamop, Winter 2023)