All these quiet prayers
from two thousand miles away
to impact the spin of the ball–
hope that could travel
far enough to land
in the temporary nestle of a net.
(originally published in Triggerfish Critical Review, Winter 2020)
All these quiet prayers
from two thousand miles away
to impact the spin of the ball–
hope that could travel
far enough to land
in the temporary nestle of a net.
(originally published in Triggerfish Critical Review, Winter 2020)
& she celebrates among the drunken dead at the Horseshoe
how ball-missiles fly through air and land cradled in young idols’ arms
I remember this,
fear of missing out– no: just missing
fumbling
no want to pull winter hat over my ears
I drink spiked cider reminding me the summer river
no breathing fire into my palms into
the frigid heart of Columbus. No,
I am waiting for the pedestrians to pass my house. Mostly decked in red, some
in opposing green, almost like Christmas, but without–
family knows the apples I douse in vodka.
family knows my unwell.
family knows my eye toward the wind I find too cold
& blow against
been awhile since Kylie & I were breathing the same air
& I’ve got a kind of sixth sense for it
(I see dead people)
but not in a ghost way more like everyone I pass has ghosted
(the phantom passes in public)
& it’s true we both head home for the Christian holidays.
Xmas, xgiving.
Cars passing the same routes
to different destinations.
Desolate highway.
Kylie’s down the street & I’m drowning here
making a scene
her silhouette at the surface joyous
but occupied
(originally published in Qwerty, Spring 2018)
In Kathleen’s apartment in Oregon,
I ask her where even is home?
Clevelanders-turned-transplants,
maybe never knowing.
I see my mom’s mown lawn
in the green fields our baseball
team travels through, my friends
in tweets spitting scores or stats.
These, I don’t care about,
but I join in discussion.
Blue hands to high-five,
then to put my phone down.
(originally published in Hobart, Winter 2018)