Eggs

I cracked an egg
with a butcher’s knife
watching yolk seep
yellow cracked surface
rough on my hands
two halves and a spill
in the sink
I have a whole
carton little hopes
silent things never
living never words
I open
each heart to beat
to whisk to swirl
and wish a tornado
in this bowl of force
and gale in golden
pool in cauldron pan
and spatula pressing
hard over white turned
head caked edges
center sliced over
all this heat blackened
burnt but good
enough to eat

 

(originally published in SPANK the CARP, 2017)

Lethargy

A butterknife has potential.
Voila! Cream cheese

on an everything
bagel.

The microwave beeps.
The ceiling fan spins.

Onions brown
at the bottom of the fridge.

Throw out the bag.
Then throw out that bag.

Swiffer shoeprints
off the floor.

Take your shoes off
next time.

Catch the mouse before
it multiplies

though you know
that means to snap

its neck.
So don’t.

Summon all the light
you can.

 

(originally published in DMQ Review, Summer 2017; featured later as a Verse Daily “Web Weekly Feature” the week of July 24, 2017)

Breakfast

I forgot about the Honey Nut Cheerios
I left on the counter in the kitchen.

Brought it to my room after my coffee,
grains soggy, milk sweet. Tried eating it

anyway but fell apart in sugary disintegration.
So I gave up. That’s usually what happens–

a few bites and that’s enough. I let it sit,
let it warm in the morning’s cool, gradual rise

to afternoon heat thinking about the satisfying
crunch it should give me, how I could have clamored

for seconds. I caress the silver spoon in deep
to slow splash and clank. This is what it becomes:

a pool of not-good-enough and I can’t will myself
to lift the ceramic altar to my lips to drink. I stare

at bottomless milk and know I live somewhere drowning
in this disappointment treading out to some delicious

shore somewhere only I know how to live, but here’s
this stale frothy white, stagnant in my bowl,

and me hovering lamenting stressing
over something fixable.

 

(originally published in The Remembered Arts Journal, Winter 2017)

Katalina’s

I would walk to the ends of the Earth for you or,
more accurately, to the brunch spot a few
blocks down the street to spend ten dollars,

ten minutes with a runny yolk on a southern
chicken breast sandwiched in a biscuit, while
your silver-haired friend buys your meal and shares

his own, he who kindly asks if I want more water
because he could always use more, like all of California
during my time there; he who gushes about the beauty

of rain-soaked Seattle, how in a three-sixty swivel
hills lush green and you never feel more alive.
I cannot help but agree that, yes, the Pacific Northwest

has a fog which casts a pall over my slinking shadow, loses it;
yes, casts a spell on my marionette body, slackens my spine
to skeleton-cast my demotion of confidence to learn, no–

to move back east from the west is not that unique.
Ladies are not impressed with artifacts,
rust coating that less authentic time.

 

(originally published in Down in the Dirt, Spring 2016)

Teeth, Eggs, and the City Limits (or: Tinder)

our short harmony brushes my teeth
flosses the ridges bending eating
at me the yellowy plaque on white

the yolks in morning how inside
we are tender sunny side up I love
the way you look at me those

runny eyes gushing off the pan
onto black-and-white tile floor
grids the burgeoning cities

in our minds cars read
the streetlights’ caution
as go, go, go . . .

 

(originally published in The City Key, Spring 2016)

In the Future I Will Drink More Coffee

in the future i’d be watching you smoke
cigarettes
waving your smoke away
with cleaver hands

breakfast would come
we’d slice cucumbers in the wet-
snake leather kitchen
rectangular blade neatly fit
sink-soaked
the yolk in the sandwich a little drippy
warm & familiar

the electric stampede of spiders’ feet

never did the future weave
faint spiderweb strands

 

(originally published in Sobotka Literary Magazine – Issue #3)

Impermanence

I.

all my words are fingerprints
& ankles in the sand, the Atlantic,
broken wind,

& I’m in bed, awake, sleeping,
blue light, wake me up, do not
disturb, I wait, I heave, I heave,
I breathe, I dream

of waking up, a clump of silver dress
entrenched in my palm

II.

whispers.

an engine hums softly,
lonely.
whirring. & the artificial black
stillness of fluorescent light

eyes that glint like shoeshine
activate the lives
of specks & lint

III.

there is no future:
just you & I, hands interlocked,
a knit pretzel woven lover
& apprentice, each knot a
finger-printed window
to fields which rise
like pancakes in heat &
left cold on the table, uneaten

 

(originally published in Hermes Poetry Journal, Issue Two, 12/1/14)