Poetry

You must have been hungry, 
the one drowsy evening, crickets 
silenced at your closeness. 
You must have been able to 
smell the casserole, 
wrapped in an orange bottle 
in the old woman's bathroom cabinet, 
desire same as thanksgiving dinner, 
parents smacking your wrist 
   	to wait for prayer 
   before you can 
  	eat 
You must have been hungry, 
imagining the white potatoes 
on the bedroom nightstand, 
hands shaking— need calling 
   to crush them into 
  	a powder, 
breathe in the butter 
of mashed potatoes. 
You held your prayer loaded, heavy in your palm, as you broke open the door,
like a can of biscuits, threatened to spill the old woman’s red cranberry 
sauce into floorboards if she didn’t feed you what you wanted. While you 
rummaged through her pantry, taking ingredients used to keep her alive, she 
called the police on you— taking away the kids you left at home with 
strangers that destroy futures. But you knew about that. No one cried when 
you got arrested. You were hungry. They hold their prayers to your head, 
hoping to pull the trigger someday. 
 

I search for light in the eye
in her that put me away.
Though, I do not understand why

you lock me in the padded closet, keep me from the sky—
Heat from the static tv, a breathing bane.
I search for light in the eye.

A Blue Bear, Purple Pegasus, and Hanging Jackets I personify.
The repeating of Mickey Mouse VHS tapes is my chain,
Though, I do not understand why.

Mother, let me out— Long hours go by—
I struggle to myself, am I just a stain?
I search for light in the eye.

The door opens and I’m about to cry.
My favorite color, sky blue, but instead I find rain,
Though, I do not understand why.

I was once a Monarch Butterfly.
Mother, why end my reign?
I search for light in the eye,
Though, I do not understand why.
 

we talk of alcohol
taking classes at our age
our kids as toddlers
collecting too many things
you’re seated on the table
without students for a day
just us for awhile
until other grownups want to share getaways
their winter high points
I would prefer to leave my blue chair
arrive to your table
in a rare silence
my hand to your cheek
inform that I’m here
without a word
you grasp my hand
peer as I stand closer to you
without surprise
across pull-down maps and hum of the heater
sun descending on other side of the park
leave the door closed
we can wish for each other

            “a kelp forest is one of the undersea wonders 
            of the world….We will try to explain the secret 
            of this sea kelp.” – Se-Kwon Kim


Avert your eyes from kelp mounds, stretched across
the beach like walruses from other worlds, 
deceased but hungry for attention. Up close,
their meaty lattices, unkempt, intestinal,

deep breathe with flies. Their tentacles now lax, 
bear swollen bulbs to float them vertical.
Experts refuse to label them as plants –
no vasculars, stomata, chlorophyll. 

But kelp has tired of living rootless, vain 
extending for the sun, the boring sway 
of tides, and soon they lose it, snap and strain
to shore, creeping boneless from the waves.

They long to green and harden, make canopies,
put down legs, and join our life of gravity. 

I’m making the end of the line explicit /
see it tilting toward the right—forward /

to the breech—then return to another /
origin, another chance to begin, blank /

where no slash is necessary even /
a \ to mark an opposite to the drop off /

a redundancy among what some may /
claim are already redundancies though /

in this piece, I consider them not /
—instead the implicit unfolded, signaling /

I am aware of the finite line, which two or three /
a scholar might quite distinguish with a /, not that I’m /

an inveterate obscurantist or ornery cuss /
just making it clear, willing to discuss /

Day spot free warm wind 
soft sway supple trees so - 
wood mellow burn smell 
gentle breeze crisp
cool and fragrant streams. 

Amble dapple shadow stone 
smooth worn feet - 
tall grass green fan
luxurious under bough
bower pale place to hide.

All heat waft humid
rain handsome high hill - 
ajar wood ahead door swing
men rush aghast all
dull swords swung high. 

The ground seems to rumble. 
A jar breaks. 

White statue amid small
ripple man wades the deep - 
bent tree cypress blow
up rise vacant shadow figure 
mumble behind locked doors.

Sunshine inside frail echo feet
patter marble hall call -  
fire burn cauldron incense 
smolder rubble rock wall 
peer a lone man out.

While fan gentle breeze 
rain mist faces so moist -  
rich smell fire roast
crisp string so sweetly so sing 
hoof beats roughly rumble. 

A jar breaks. 

Rhythm cross sweet
bridge sacred cow cry - 
white dress woman vanish
shadow noon haunt fountain
children play all alone. 

A door slams. A yell. 

Still scent sand remain no
song hover bygone breeze -
nap dream rich wine red
night share fire rage 
through sweet gentle field. 

A jar breaks. A rush.