Category: Poetry

Look at us now with our bludgeoned hands held like empty weapons to the stars.

Finished ironing, I emptied extra water onto cement, reluctant to climb stairs back into claustrophobic caregiving.

Every time it rains, the foxes pull apart                with their claws a rainbow and commence a procession through it, walking on               all fours to the town square for a wedding.

If one / could slough pain, let wind come.

Glory the day my father takes me to the river to watch the stadium implode into a ghost of dust.

We were always told that Nana and Grandpa Joe eloped / when she was only 17, though she’d been promised / to Frank Capra’s brother.

I love you where yellow bends.

Instead of wallowing // in animal glory like all the world’s a watering hole, / the subject has instead learned to feel alone