You are not
sad. It is the mirror
who is sad,
transparent and flat
holding first your eyes,
then body,
then the bathroom’s.
The way black mold
sneaks high
into ceiling, where
neither of you
will do anything
about it.
(originally published in Typehouse Literary Magazine, Summer 2017)
I am scared to death
of death.
Not just the big death
but tiny deaths, too.
All the bulbs are burning out
in my house one by one.
In living, we accrue small darknesses.
Mirror to mirror: void
where my eyes should be.
Hung mauve towel.
Vines of black mold.
Plastic ringlets steady
stained curtain infinity.
The silver shower faucet was once
a sunflower dreamed of fluorescence.
Now, downpour, no bright
for every prayer.
Gallons of black shower
(plead with God just–).
Gobs of
gobs and gobs of hair
cling to the drain.
Genuflect in the porcelain pitter-patter.
A feedback loop of weeps.
Hot water, cold water,
no water.
(originally published in Isthmus, Winter 2016)