Sadness is a chewable tablet
in the fall. The riptide
returns with a little less
water in the hourglass
than yesterday. There is a bottle
with your name on it, a plastic
orange, pills you don’t believe in
but I believe in you and your bare-
branch will. Every year it all ends
and each time,
leaves appear again.
(originally published in Chronogram, Spring 2025)
in the game you say it is time
to stop being obnoxious it is
morning in the year of Our
Tiger twenty twenty-two
feels like a glitch to write
over and over but living
like this with imposed
time limits before ice
scrapes off my vehicle
I lose sight of the sun
the windshield white
(originally published in Rundelania, Fall 2024)
When I part orange floral curtains
in obscured sunshine, my sadness grows
no more profound. Black hairs
prostrate on the half-wet tub a vestige
of an earlier me. My accordion heart,
my baying accordion heart is
drenched in absolution, the blanket
of suds that coat my state
of being. I wish I could tell
you that everything is okay,
but I look up to the faucet
and the pressure says nothing–
the world is a drowned white
noise soundscape I am trying
to listen through. You are out
there, somewhere. Eyes closed,
the chill haunts me when
the water turns off, as
steam becomes the memory
I breathe.
(originally published in AvantAppal(achia), Spring 2022)
maybe it is not seeing-eye dogs training
in the grass I pass or the street vendors
selling sunglasses tamales and watercolors
or the waves that touch a difficult nerve
which snap me into a more relaxed reality
or the toaster-oven croissant at the French
bakery on Ocean Avenue but the cranes
that lift off skyscrapers in the heavy wind
that make me want to punch real estate
developers in the jaw or somesuch non
sensical violence bear trap tourist trap
somewhat Floridaesque my happy life
on blast it is dynamite at a luxury
construction site this weekend
(originally published in Artvilla, Spring 2023)
you wanted
to fill
my room
with cute
junk
to remember
you forever
I will
it is february
a year now
fallen branches
green grass
the storm
I found
fitting
the wind
the roof
we chose to
not replace
with
broken
sticks
and dust
memories
a kindling
the house fills
with smoke
(originally published in BlazeVOX Journal, Spring 2023)
Shivering light
in Michigan,
four-headed
beacon–
you dance
to shake
the cold’s
tongue
stuck
to
your
body
(originally published in The Sunlight Press, Spring 2023)
I don’t have a new perspective.
Snow thaws on sidewalk beside
uncollected garbage. Half the city
workers are in quarantine yet
there are boxes to be shipped
for Christmas or our mothers’
birthdays. I drove on dew
streets to buy you bagels–
but stopped at the sight of
a long line to retreat into
the O of your arms in my
mind. Please park
your car next to mine.
We will sit in our usual
distance and wait for spring.
(originally published in Dodging the Rain, Winter 2021)
My paranoia speaks to me:
If you can’t tell me you bought
a nice shirt, what else are you
hiding? I walked outside
this morning to see crows
perched on power lines.
It’s the middle of winter
and this hemisphere is
supposed to be birdless.
And I read surveillance is
on the rise, that I should shine
my flashlight in the rooms
of AirBnBs and seek
a strange reflection.
But I can’t stop looking
at myself in the mirror.
I’m manufactured– hair
gelled, clothes pressed.
In the reflected light I
can’t find myself, just
a strange reflection.
(originally published in White Wall Review, Winter 2021)
on mornings of annoyances 20-degree cold
sneaks through windows between my teeth
ices milk with each spoonful of Cheerios
& lukewarm coffee you study flipping
quickly the notebook flicking several gales
then scrawl in red pen what I assume curses
so I respond with this handful of nothing words
recyclables inside non-recyclable plastic I know
if I communicated better you wouldn’t be
ripping out perforated pages wanting to move
on but the cat watches winter leaves whisk
by the window & tonight it will snow
(originally published in The Seventh Quarry, Summer 2023)
month close to death. not quite. i mean
lingering. sword in my throat sharpens.
no blood just ideas. look somehow
i’ll make it through & you will too.
sun a fluorescent hospital interior
bland & tasteless. every song out
of tune piano room. cold blanket
can’t hide the notes dark &
hovering outside the window
(originally published in OVERHEARD Lit, Winter 2022)