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)
mouth greasy from chicken finger oil I finally tell you
I love you the bowling alley piss-like or flower
petals words thrown down slick lane
quick spin make thunder in falling
pins in front of us no matter
strike or split or spare or miss
(originally published in The Magnolia Review, Fall 2017)
A river isn’t really blue. The Mississippi
has dried, and even love is transparent.
We adorn ourselves blue so loss
can be quantified in color. Such
is the brittle paintbrush, naked
and grieving, but we are not
the color of grieving,
nor tobacco spat in the dugout
in shame. We remember
the dirt, and who we loved,
long before we searched
clouds’ faces for ghosts,
her grays in the white
within eternal blue.
(originally published in ‘the vacant hinge of a song’, courtesy of Origami Poems Project)
Watched watched time
slip in every missed wooden swing
and pixelated glove’s plop
I ran up and down the stairs on
measured pink-speckled carpet,
to the basement, to the kitchen, to the basement,
to the kitchen – a treadmill’s dream, the incline
an inclination against elderly lethargy,
the seventh inning, an extra inning,
watery left eye saying, how do you move
so swiftly, turning to the tv to make a call for
the bullpen, the bullpen,
call in the bullpen,
call the hospital:
the only time I said I love you and
I croaked it
in my chest. The mumbled sine wave.
I clicked the phone off,
game ending, closer to the closer, the
the casket we closed to forget.
(originally published in Corvus Review, Winter 2015 Issue)
Motion is sweat
a man’s hand.
Time is a vicious
roar at zero:
we pivot when we miss
our daughters’ first words
for obsessed strangers,
who want what we project
so they can react.
(Originally published in if&when, December 2014)