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)
I am a nail-punctured tire
the rubber smell
with you, unfinished, our wheels –
squealing for still.
Our bodies, bands stretched and heaved
in bundles of clothing
feathers scattered and–)
navigating roadmaps to our cores,
you can reach the end
and pluck what you want.
I just want you to see me for who I am
when your legs aren’t clamped around me,
the squeeze in the mitt.
(originally published in First Literary Review – East, Spring 2018)
How you ran
with eyes averted.
Kite and string, we
wanted the wind,
I hold and
(originally published in Up the River, Fall 2017)
spilled honey clings to black wires
connecting the world my lifeblood
laptop nestled in her shell safe from fingers
goldenrod shirt covers the old burns
the pinewood ashes coat my nostrils
the harsh wind blows crooked conifer to the verge
almost to fracture the window waiting
to kaleidoscope glass a body as canvas
hardwood red lust to cleanse gathering dust
rain pats the chair-infested patio drips of
laughter boomerang from slippery brick
and the blonde coughs from beyond the dark
halls of shed fur & grime
(originally published in Freshwater, Spring 2018)
through apples (nothing).
half a meal, half a pine,
half of what we hoped for,
the way a core reveals itself inedible,
though we knew.
from day one, bites
sometimes the juice sweetness
overpowers slow rot.
it was early on, and worms
had yet to emerge from their holes
in the ground to greet us.
all we had to do
was wait for rain.
(originally published in First Literary Review – East, Winter 2018)
& part of her phrase of course is
if you can’t handle me at my worst
but there’s a left turn into darkness
no one wants to take &
the signal’s jammed so no one knows
the direction anywhere anymore
just a mirror of the night
reflecting night, a ninety
degree warming sadness glued
onto a body. one silhouette
low into evening, a heat repenting
unknown sin, a snake slithering
out from its hole into you
(originally published in Gyroscope Review, Fall 2017)
pray to the clay
there are canyons
cratered in our hearts
not every landscape
is refined each is full
of fingerprints and colors
in her face you will find
who you are looking for
in any landscape the forests
your father the mountains
your mother the shifting
desert sand tombs
are caverns you must lose yourself
in memories and forget
the horizon no one
seems so far away
beside the ocean
(originally published in Uppagus, Fall 2017)
I want you to read this:
my night was the endless Niagara.
Love, flowing along sediment
of bones and thorny breathing,
ends on a brown couch of dog
and cat hair nice against my jeans.
I woke there next to a loaded potato gun.
Can’t stop writing dirty things
on the Buddha board
hoping you will read them.
If not you,
My bones’ silence
And the message always
(originally published in Serving House Journal, Fall 2017)
As I run hot faucet water
over the head of my electric toothbrush,
Jennifer asks isn’t it better
when we brush our teeth together?
This, of course, is redundant.
I have cleaned the spit
and foam from my brush alone
through the years,
watched clean water slowly spiral
down a clog.
I have taken better care
Flossed the plaque
tartar of bad habits,
in and out of you.
These I can withstand.
Thus I answer at all.
on my scalp
in your laugh
on our tongues
(originally published in Gnarled Oak, Summer 2017)