Category: Poetry

All night, each night, the wind / as against the hull of some dropped // ship in a dried up sea / the rain seems to wish to fill.

Mine is the work of dying: / umber, curl, release. / When I come to call, / things fly away, fall away. // Umber, curl, release / into stillness, though nothing is still.

Here’s a trick my mother used / to keep us from running wild at Giant Eagle: / Anything in the produce section, / we could have, so long as we ate it:

I await / to yearn for these barefooted afternoons

I’d seen via Facebook omniscience that he’d graduated, / and fallen in love, and maybe left Kansas, or Nevada. // But then he posts that he misses her. / Even modern medicine can’t stop a pulse from flat-lining.

Nothing. Bandaids for broken bones. Papercuts and pebbles in my shoe. How stars feel on a clear night, trickling pixels hand over hand over sky over sea over air, to me.

Week after week, rain infiltrates underground numbers stations / driving saturated secrets like ants from floor and baseboard cracks, / molding enemies of neighbors, our sacred trust bled into puddles.

It’s best not to stare at the spiders that hang in corners, from vents, directly above you. Best not to ruminate on the myriad of arachnids your body has ghosted in your throat. Don’t try to imagine this room that looks like him. A disorder of hard-covers arranged by genre. Don’t envy his loud inhales, …