Poetry

Toast

Once a woman who lost her mother / told me the story of a guru rushing / to satisfy his dying mentor’s last wish.

Because You Are Dead You Think You Can Have Anything You Want

You come back, / bent over my things / like a collector, hunched, / touching, wanting to lay claim / to everything.

When It Smells Like Rain

perhaps there should be another word for depression / we’ve become too accustomed to the sound

Love, We Never Get Too Far

You know / drowning is as much a predicament of time / as water.

I Wasn’t There

Cancer came and took a lung, / then came and took the rest / of him. And I wasn’t there…

After Top Surgery

You do not have to stagger around the house, / unaided and weak, / as the meds wear off or kick in.

Her Marked Black Body

The macabre moon / Once lunged at me / It hisses red / Hangs voyeuristically / Wants me to stand in its balkanized light.

Etymology of Chlorophyll

Love, / from Germanic lufu, is intestinal and milky / like undug onions squeezed from mothers.

Letter to a Dead Mother

Thinking of you as I pick up flecks of oats from the kitchen floor, / put them back in the container. You know, the five-second rule.