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three hours after midnight
she woke up seeing sirens, her spirit cramped and moist and crawling like ants flat across a sticky weathered floor, the heat sickness of a summer night’s shivery poison leaving sweat tracks on...
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urban farmhouse at twilight
there is the subtlest of breezes from full-flung windows where the world comes in, dragging its day-end noises: settling birds, slowing traffic. It smells still of dark coffee & morning-baked...
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they told me this was a poem
the notebook i burned that day i learned hate: i wish i had those words again. the one long coat i’ll never wear and the books i’ll never sell, that sit damply expiring in the back of the closet...
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This is not
what was meant to be sprouted from scarlet, this: your exhortation to stop picking at scabs, the crusted-over crimson of searching fingers. I meant it to be about the blood of history, all sticky rust...
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shadowboxing
This poem is not for you. It walks behind me and laughs, says you must have strength to be gentle (and tho i feel like crying); We take pride in being southpaws. This poem doesn’t hear the hurt in a...
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what i found inside the black box
so much can happen in a decade. in a night filled with spiral-sta(i)red decline. things to hold on to, in sacred letters tall as a man: to touch. you should have known there: tangere, like want....
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Your heart
has grown old. worn down by the lonelinesses of a hundred empty homes, sunken in like fingers fallen too long asleep in a hot bath. how else do you show me the moon, its silky- ink silhouette...
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The Salon of Writers and Artists
A very kind shout-out and collaborative nod from artist Chris Ludke, whose work inspired the poem at our Literary salon last week. You can check out her work here— the painting’s title is Poe’s...
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You will know because the moon will weep blood
He never wanted. You will understand what the trees are whispering, Japanese maple leaves falling by gaslight, branches that shudder let nothing harm her as they bare their bark to the night. Sirens...
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Normal rhythms
If you listen, you can feel the fat whoosh pounding beneath fingertips, the ready warmth of rush-of-red head- ward from heart: not ruby-red or glitter-red like Dorothy’s slippers but still magic, the...
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