Poetry
The macabre moon / Once lunged at me / It hisses red / Hangs voyeuristically / Wants me to stand in its balkanized light.
Love, / from Germanic lufu, is intestinal and milky / like undug onions squeezed from mothers.
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.
We watch the gardener arc the hose / carelessly washing away the work / of mud sparrows, hornets and wasps.
Nine months into my life, I am asked to eat on command / These tiny bursts of cylindrical snow that will reappear / Again and again
It’s been proven, they say— / the bills like a line of ants, / the glamour of the new year / grown dull like a tin ring
April is my favorite month. / Its stormy flowers / and puddled rainbows are captivating / as is the lightning / that breaks cool spring nights / like a child’s scribble.
Passing by the burial ground, / I see some flickers of light. / A friend tells me / it’s the bones that flash.