after our red leash
became frantic
unsure of what grip
the wilderness had
or which eyeline
to focus on
oh aquamarine jewels
oh black-silk storks
name the artist
who decided traffic
was a logjam
in their brain
all you must do
(golden hour brown
on the frizz
of your hair)
is unclench
your fist
and follow
the leopard
(originally published in EAP: The Magazine, Fall 2023)
Our photos hang
on nails. Crucifixion.
Quiet, now, white
walls. I know
our distance
vast (Arizona’s
lizard days,
stretched).
The sand
in my eyes.
The wind.
Violent blindness–
everyone
cannot see past
this zoo.
Kill all
the animals before
God does.
I live to
love and you love
my diatribes.
Asinine
commitment, an
x-ray into
robbery. My
body. Your
house.
(originally published in Statement Magazine, Spring 2023)
We danced; gorillas
covered their ears
behind the glass
(originally published in Dodging the Rain, Spring 2020)
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)
