Now that the hurricane
has passed with clear
skies, I have a chance
to explore my new
neighborhood.
I cut down trees
in my overgrowth
of memory. A long
driveway leads to
an abandoned mansion,
brown-bricked and sturdy.
The ghosts inside
I would evict completely
but I have some questions–
how did your love end?
I know one side
of the story, this mess
of leaves the formless
speak, garbled
waves a fog’s
difference. In how
I hear– in your
perception saying
what? Over and
over, chewing
the sustenance
I was fed. Ruins
rising in the moonlight
and you do not believe
in astrology or ghosts,
anything supernatural
except God, yes,
the bubbles of doubt
float into your vacancies
of faith you placed
between your thumb
and forefinger,
the Leaning Tower
of our trust
that could have been
plucked from
any old hairline.
(originally published in Dandelion Scribes, Winter 2025)
Tennessee
Super Bowl, 2025
we wore our best hunter-green waited patiently
as men took a different kind of field we craved
sustenance a resurrection a flight a waiting
by window in the purple light under wrong
tin roof what we tossed into sky we threw
away our wing-missiles pigskins of self
talons landing burrowing deep out of view
what craft drunk disturbance in the flapping
february frigidity that beat against our jackets
yours the bird slick knit on surface mine
a thready childhood blanket to keep no one
and nothing not the least of heat my heart
drinks beside you as it waits for the game
to be good but it never does and always was
(originally published in Fast Pop Lit, Fall 2025)