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Although I concede: burials should be
an occasion of final rites, pomp
and happenstance, if you will,
with at least one moaner who may or may
not know the departed. And so
I gather alonewith a shovel in my backyard
and his needle in my forethought.
I offer what I have to give—these brick pavers,
his cheap urn, the memory of my sister’s
fist through our childhood home’s window
and the gentle way he sobered to wrap
her paw in an old shirt.
Read it in The Georgia Review
flapping the black wings of their youth to stave off the winter
that follows them, and follows them, that knows where they live,
that knows where we all live
Read it in The London Magazine
Watch the god Hypnos meet the Mother in a coffeehouse.
He, in dapper clothes the color of oblivion and clouds.
She, ragged, wearing a worn number from two days prior, milk-stained and smelling sour. She cradles a cup of coffee, lets it warm her hands until they regain color.
“Why don’t you call on me,” the god asks.
Listen to his voice, a purr, a song. Watch how the Mother nearly wilts to sleep then and there.
“I cannot,” she sighs.
Read it in Gone Lawn
He took a week to gather his things
and move into my body. Not what
we’d packed in his coffin. Pickaxe,
Maine gold, tourmaline, his dog’s ashes.
Only what would not press for space. Breath,
curses, dreams. I couldn’t explain
Read it in The Maine Review
Full-time mother full-time smother full-time teacher full-time failure full-time nail biter full-time queen of never-ending laundry full-time cracked insomniac full-time I could bite my house in half with my family still sleeping inside it
Read it in Bennington Review
Morbid. Moribund. Memento mori. In spring, the petals I walk on turn
to ash. In summer, I rot the fruit. I embody death. I am tremendous.
Tremble.
Read it in Sepia
What they think about arms when they see us, if we appear
fresh plucked, grounded: or do they curl wingtips and dream
little bones, little fingers
Read it in Roanoke Review
‘I bet you wish you could push me off on an ice floe like the Eskimos do.’
Her flash of wry humour amuses him despite himself. ‘I don’t think they call themselves that anymore, Ma.’
Read it in Fictive Dream
My knees hurt today after
two hours of trying to fix
the dishwasher. It’s
a bullshit life, but
you know that. We come back
to each other to disprove
that fact, tasting the firm
buttons of your nipples
after the kids sleep, after a perfect
pumpkin soup, vegetables from
our own garden.
Read it in Radar Poetry
I once had a student tell me they couldn’t write poems
because they have no feelings.
I asked
how does it feel to have no feelings?
They said
like trying to eat a bagel, but when you bite down
the only thing in your mouth is the hole.
Read it in Barnstorm Journal
A Quiet Root 