Poetry

Neither pained by blameor seduced by praise, I kept my soul taut as a drawnbowstring, the last of ten children tithed to the church.At nine, buried alive  for the rest of my long lifein service to Christ. I was his  bride forever in bloom, braidsunbound, white lace veil grazing the floor, whisperingwives scandalized—dry husks unsuited…

                              We open Madlibs again,the ferry late the third hour,               and you choose “xiphoid,”how you did twice before. I’m pretty sure                              we are never getting on the boat, I said,We could play again, you said. Along the breakwaters                              seagulls land like tourists, at this time of day,                                             bloated with complaint—                              how silent must I learn to be? I askedand you said,…

If you think of it, everyopportunity is last minute.You aren’t great—just the bestlast. Handed a brink, most maybes diein the back of a throat beforelips can dawn. Folk like answers;they want their coupons clipped.Maybe my neck isn’t straightas a ladder—each breath is stillits own rung. The holes betweencarry me along, and this may bethe first…

At the Musée Gustave MoreauI looked at all the surfaces whileyou explained the stories. At the base of the spiral stairswe bared our eyes at Les Chimères,a painting pale and unfinished. What a heavy task he set himselfto finish with color and formall the empty limbs, I thought. Agitated by outlines, you read:He stopped working…

“See, one day, not now, we will be gone from this earth where we know the gladiolas.”—Aracelis Girmay But not today. today there is no funeral& no need for a burial shroud & a casket.in this room we are alive—each one of ustending the flowers that bloom on the smallearth of our hearts & watching…

Apparently I am this crying guy,eyes full of analogue worldin the gap betweenolive leaves, acknowledging the sea,acknowledging allis fucked as kidsand philosophers say and know best,but okay,for a silver-leafed span,storied but brief in the gap betweenolive branch and grief,I make this noise.It is enough. In the gap betweenbefore and gone already, my fatherand sister were…

How long would it take to growan Eastern White Oakeighty feet tall in your own backyard? And how longmight it take to burn oneall the way down? Could you shoot that on your phoneand let your battery run downuntil the ash at your feet is cool to touch? Even now, I canfeel grubs tunneling undertheir…

Look                                        even birds sing in mourning.For the first time in years,a dove in the front yard builds nest,quietly patterns her return with bundles,weaves tiny broken thingsin work of a home.Whereas even the desert still offers itself, a pursuitunfolding unlike our bodies, just constellationsor chain link fences. The first time I hold between my palmsthe remnants of…

It’s what the phlebotomists always say, gushing when I slide up my sleeve, straighten my arm to boast bulging channels evergreen like spruce, leafy green like a spring mix, they bubble with delight palpating each protuberance, each tubular translucence swimming just beneath my skin, I suppose they are, perfectly plump for puncture, these outcurved creeks, transporters of blood—I’ve been thinking about blood, I’ve been thinking…