Category: Poetry

The truth is I will never again see the mother I know, the one always halfway through four different books, or making the light on the water perfect in her pastel landscapes.

Soft light lands and pops on your clavicles like soap bubbles. The restoration crew comes and goes like field medics

Her heart two-steps, now flesh, now metaphor, while her mind—the brain when it blushes— gently nets a halo: thought bubbles and unlit bulbs.

I liked the idea that I could make it go away  with words, but ultimately, they would find  nothing because I never wrote.

Instead, he finds the cardinal, drop of blood flitting through the leaves, dancing where the light moves a hand as it breaks here, breaks there, casts shadow against ashen bark.

she knows where the river winds itself around the cliffs, where the snakes polish their lungs in bile, where the darkness multiplies in sleepless schools of fish

On the bottom shelf,  my shadow.  The middle,  a mirror holds my face. 

And a cloud in the shape of a sister. This womb emptied of promise. That brief waking moment love has no synonym.