Portrait of a Kitchen

Rather, it’s about the void she left
behind– no dirty dishes in the sink,
no hand to move the plates out
from the coffins of the cabinets.
Used to be hot soup was what
we wanted to come home to
when we wanted to come
home, but the chicken rots
in the fridge and even its
memory chokes on
cold forever air

 

(originally published in Poetry Pacific, Fall 2018)

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buffalo roam
the sacred land

pipes and protestors
clank and clash

signs

God in front of the lens
smiling gold teeth

cup of reservoir water
in hand (with straw)

I did this
he boasts

god
isn’t it beautiful

the way people rally
sinking ships

a river knows
only the land

it flows through

 

(originally published in Sheila-Na-Gig Online, Spring 2018)

Mud

or is it clay or is it ghosts I remember
muddy footprints you walking in from
rain white plate of cookies in sweat-palms
mud on floor you said sweet, sweet, sweet,
sweet children all those black nights the salty
wind knocking its way in through shut
windows the dead flowers in vases
received sunlight their daily bread
give us ours the ramshackle trinity of unclean
dishes filthy hands and the sticky fridge door
which wouldn’t open not for you
and certainly not for us

 

(originally published in Califragile, Fall 2017)

Simple Light

Your wristwatch ticks slower than mine.

Time does not account for the beating
of two hearts
on opposite coasts.

Know we pass through days the same:
second by second, minute,

hour, moon– every second,
every minute I fill myself
with your moonlight,

and when your crystal radiates
at the thrust of night,
we are endless, meaningless

as the turn of the hour
when the gleam of your smile
will guide me from the dark.

 

(Originally published in Eunoia Review, Winter 2017)

Ant Gel

Fill the cracks so the ants can’t infest.
This is the poison applied for feeding:

urine-yellow icky glue sealing lips
to take home to another body. Sometimes

words stick where I open my mouth–
the crevice between us not letting you in.

I, too, have brought small gifts back
underground thinking them an olive

branch. Each attempt kills one way
or another. Malignant misinterpretations.

I return with this pellet of words.
This killing I never meant to witness.

 

(originally published in Abstract Magazine, Fall 2017)