Category: Poetry

Peel the gauze. If “open” is a better word than peel, let us wait for the sparkle, likely reflecting from solaced tears. The sense of Sight had curled up in the temples, snug, waiting to be freed another way. There must be...

You, with the halo, mind your rings for they once lived in trees. Before they were christened into a baby pen, chiseled from the inside of an oak. Are the stars below, above or around? Nearness clarifies the turquoise, the navy,...

Praise the evening for it has severed ties with shadows, heaping rice kept for a wedding we had anticipated and missed. The morning will bend its knees; thus say goodbye to the emptying of night, and its continuum. There, I pick...

There was a memorial in the park today. The people gathered near the pavilion, their heads bowed, the trees above lowered their branches, even the sun looked down and spread its mottled light through the maples, as the squirrels...

It’s not the sharp pain of a snapped-back garter belt or the yank of a door slam pulling out a tooth. It’s a bandage slowly peeled, lifting off a scab. She stokes the fire he lit in the brick fireplace, then from her bed watches...

I try not to imagine you leaning on the Formica counter hunched in pain face furrowed as you peel carrots, onions beets before turning to grace me in your arms. I worry that those pills could send you climbing a ladder which...

In the electron micrograph scans they are lovely to look at— enlarged, dressed in a tincture of turquoise or purple as playful as two exotic Cheez Doodles or two miniature astronauts suited up and swaddle-clumsy floating—no...

They’ll wear dresses and tuxes and dance and laugh they’ll pose and kiss and stay up ‘til dawn Prom Night for them a Sopranos marathon for me no corsage and necklace only sweatpants and bare feet There are worse things than not...

(A pantoum) We hear the beat of new life’s drum, when grass and flowers rise like dough. Beauty sings when the heart is dumb, after sackcloth silence of snow. The grass and flowers rise like dough, spring paints with many colors...

Holding hands           running through alfalfa           feet squishing in the mud. Sharing laughter           stories, friends, secret           hopes, and blood. Money was the scalpel           that drew the cutting line.    ...