POETRY

“Poetry is language at its most distilled and most powerful.”
—Rita Dove
Several someones

a folksome, gruesome opera
of gauze and malcontent.

Clotheslines

Ma wrings
a wet world
of colors

Vase

The storm passes without snow.
The car waits loyally in the back lot.

Back Suplex

Gravel-scatted hell &
we were blessed to be able
to hold on for even a heartbeat

Snow Falls from Branches

Should have found a job by now; should have slept in the night;
should have boiled old coffee before noon.

There is an alternative universe

Ghosts for hire, whispers in her mouth,
cysts to feel, the symmetry of a gift.

Babylon

If America is Babylon / and you are an exile / newly arrived among pagans / Catholic, ‘Ngolan, Black, woman / you already know how to pray

Condolences

my friends’ fathers are
dropping
I mean dying
like flies

Welcome To The House of Static

here is the sky in stop motion, flickering,
a still shot in monochrome

The love of my life moved from portland to new england

He has stories that I am not in
anymore. It’s healed this way.

Going Broke

Winter sat like a wolf
on the horizon.

Fallout Shelter

I imagined a cascade of slow death for all / that mattered…

Good Driver

Lights on the dashboard spell out
“You still can’t kiss me”

Sadness is a Sin

If my life was the size of my arm, I would stretch it out for you.

Dear Deer in the Compost Pile

I tap at the alphabet while a single deer
taps at the dirt beyond the brush
on the far side of the tree line.

“Artifact,” as Translated from Gluberhöff’s Lexicon

Any still figure at mid-late evening, when the long shadows make even crumbs appear arranged like furniture.

Sprung (April)

I like to think I’m also sprung,
released from the furnace knocks,
done with the heavy meat stews
and salty soups.

Unerased | Steep Steps

My grandmother asked, “Does it feel like being widowed?”