we didn’t do yoga except your feet
on my shoulders & months later
you zip past me with my new lover
on your bicycle the acacias stink
of memory you see us arm
in arm on the way to the library
as we used to too but when we
kissed was a web spiders clung to
a hunger many legs couldn’t satisfy
(originally published in WINK, Winter 2020)
I am reliving and reliving the remote
control buttons then buttons
in your bed, golden room of silk
and how many times did we drink
like that? Dropping beer after beer
at Zeno’s then groaning summer sleep
right after. What were we dreaming
about? The cat was snoring and
what an endless loop! Blinking
awake and wanting to crush
night back with aluminum eyelids
(originally published in The Drunken Llama, Summer 2021)
Our world is made
of water, of sadness.
Blue hues in a
supermarket’s faces.
Green bills,
blue hills.
These are wings of sky,
the mechanics of flight:
sidewalks float bugs
that gently illuminate.
There are no more
fireworks, only quiet
landing of legs
onto concrete,
the resting a belief
you do your best,
you try.
(originally published in The Sunlight Press, 2020)
Sara dances to a Zumba video on her laptop
at the kitchen table I eat chocolate chip cookies
the dog gets too close the moment she kicks air
he walks to a window to study his reflection I inhale
as Sara does the dog stares back exhales my reflection
consuming me but soon my body how my feet are bare
on coffin wood and Sara throws punches while dough
collapses in my fingers before I move grease to mouth
yes yes YES alongside the workout instructor to techno
beats a pitch of butter sugar flour down my gullet
I have accomplished an entire row from the baking pan
Sara says that’s enough but she means her water break
many minutes into sweat an eternity away from ending
she says her stomach hurts and I get it, mine too
(originally published in Indiana Voice Journal, Winter 2018)
The way the cat looked at me
after his treat–
the difference was ours has a home.
And God I am so ashamed.
They are the same
but I was on our unfamiliar
porch
swinging
a bag of sustenance
like unlimited pleasure
you needed
for survival
(originally published in The Magnolia Review, Summer 2018)
I walk waiting for the clarity of nature to upend my core
having forgotten again another grand idea I had the night before
the rain-soaked sidewalk
& deep dent on a passenger door
a two-story house I think is too tall
too wet bricks and white columns
each window a translucent universe of past
raindrops & the universe everything ahead of you
out of reach past the physical
the American flag waves in the wind
black sedans drive to a hair studio
talk show hosts spit they just
spit
& my dream once was to be on television
& in Los Angeles it happened
my face on mom’s television
but otherwise forgotten
still signals invisible waves
here I am a field the scribbled wandering
eyes & a blue jay makes a home in a tree
& me in the days I become
when I look in any mirror
(originally published in Botticelli Magazine, Spring 2018)
Street sweeping
happens irregularly
around here. Every
three months then
you forget about it.
I’ve been off and on in love
with my roommate since the
day she moved in. November
rain, the red-bricked road,
I look out my window–
no cars on the side
of the street I parked on.
I scramble from my room,
her boyfriend in the hallway,
and I yell street cleaning!
His eyes bug up
and we race down
stairs to beat the tow
trucks but I open the door
to see cars parked around mine.
I tell him I’m going anyway
to check the signs–
which I do in my blue
flip-flops, waddling out into
wet grass to find
next week’s the sweeping–
and don’t we always
wait yet another week
to cleanse ourselves of what
we fear we don’t need?
A bad job
or incompatible lover.
For months they have fought
about necessary changes
neither of them will make,
and just last week
she told me
the cycle of her life
goes in years by threes.
The job, the lover,
the house, the dust.
There’s a chill. I’m not wearing
a jacket, so I go back inside
and tell him it’s next week–
but he’s known this for weeks.
(originally published in Columbia Journal Online, Winter 2018)
On the patio drinking iced coffee
you write a letter to Jane Fonda
telling her you always thought
you’d be an actress– that distant
magical woman with a collection of
workout VHS tapes, one of which you
bought when thrifting. The sun is out. Lawyers
beside us talk about renovations to streets
near campus but from straw to lips– you and I,
our city infrastructure’s solid. We do not
fill our holes with asphalt to build new roads
lined with palm trees and your bagel stays fresh
in morning cool that feels like Palm Springs,
California. I am somewhere old yet unfamiliar:
a vacation in our neighborhood, a beach
house along the shores of the Scioto river,
oldies guitar strumming through air
like a boat guided by breeze–
fond of the present, sailing upstream.
(originally published in The Bitchin’ Kitsch, Spring 2018)
Everything is on sale. Where once was bread
now empty shelves and strangers scanning aisles
for the last shred of good. As it closes you say
you are a little sad, but it was never your favorite
grocery store. We have been fighting a lot lately–
from our favorite tv shows, to what type of dog
we might get, to which sugary cereals to pile
into our cart with all these cheap products
that don’t fit together: taco shells, toothpaste,
store-brand mac and cheese– would you believe
a month ago this place was stocked with everything
we need? We try to talk about marriage,
our deepwater eyes zooming through the dark
into a future where we guess what will become
of this building while seeking sustenance we know
other shoppers already bought the last of.
We need a sign to give us clearance to move on–
then the cashier, ringing each item slowly
as if savoring each would save his job, repeats
thirty percent off, thirty percent off, thirty percent off,
and a little more every day.
(originally published in Ohio Edit, 2018)
It’s 8 P.M. and lights hang like eggs
on a string beneath the moon
from the second-floor window
to the wooden fence.
The air conditioner threatens
the chattering insects
with its drone suckling noise
from fading light.
A car door slams. The almost-distant
hum of traffic. Sirens occasionally
dot red the air, causing the dogs
in the neighborhood to howl.
What does anyone mean
when they say animal?
Outside I am one
with the wild.
Beyond vine-green, breathing
fence I hear a basketball
bounced, tossed, missed,
dropped.
Whomever is playing must be lost
in thought, making calculations
of which he is unaware,
surviving in one way he knows.
(originally published in CultureCult Magazine, 2017)