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)
Work snips years
it abducts me
from living
and the drinks are heavy
after
in my liver
my tenuous body
if I could live
in a less-consumed way
outside
with the grass
not overgrowing
my head
in the mountains
with a beach-blue
overlook
and while I’m
fantasizing
I want a bug force
field to keep
the pests away
I want to glide
over the landscape
a less-ambitious Magneto
breathing in
high-altitude sea breeze
until the stress is gone
and I deflate
into the ocean
though I don’t know
how to swim
see
even my daydreams
end with darkness
(originally published in The Wise Owl, Spring 2023)
in the coffee shop
you tuck a bundle
of lavender
into the v
of your shirt,
aim it at your nose
then type furious
emails to co-workers
gently
gently
(originally published in Crack the Spine, Fall 2018)
I.
Bullets ricochet
in every entered home
and they are similar
to ballet, a delicate
do not fall wherever
you cannot stand back up
but pirouette anyway– every room
spins the opposite of you.
II.
Hair on the surface of bleeding
bricks. The house of
violent storms. Mortars
with every step.
III.
Heaven, the insurance premium,
costs far too much.
IV.
We are legless because
we cannot stand. Wingless
because no one believed
we would fly again.
V.
During construction,
no one built us for the long-term.
There are nails in every crook
of skin– every place you look.
(originally published in The Black Napkin, Summer 2016)