She and me
She looks like me
But different
Her eyes are wider
My smile hides more.
I try to see the beauty in that
But the irony is so loud
I cannot hear what you say
To the contrary.
She looks like me
But different
Her eyes are wider
My smile hides more.
I try to see the beauty in that
But the irony is so loud
I cannot hear what you say
To the contrary.
Let’s share a meal of
sauteed garlic scapes
and rose hip tea.
Overlooked parts can shine.
Or we could prepare a soup from
discarded shrimp shells
and leftover bones.
There is always more to give.
You broke the sun——
twinning a nebulous
fire fest-
ive
spent the tempest
bronze coins
on burnt eyes
i like to wake up early in the morning
at that initial break of dawn
when the sun has yet to fully peak the horizon
i walk into the kitchen
and brew myself a full pot of coffee
but ignore the fact
that there’s no one for me to share it with
i pour some into a deep, maroon mug
and wrap my cold hands around its surface
i step out onto the porch
and make my way down to the grass
i let the dew-stained blades tickle my bare feet
as i walk over to the little lilac bush
and gently brush my hand over the fading blossoms
i bring one of the blooms up to my nose
and breath in that nostalgic scent
reminiscing on—-
and there’s a sigh
i make my way back inside the house
and i set my now empty mug deep down into the sink
i dry my face with a tissue
then i pick up that pot of coffee—-still mostly full—-
and i drain it
down into the sink
listening to the liquid rush into the drain
the sound
similar to that of a waterfall
The country roads have changed so much:
McMansions hoard one fields like castles
and new sewage and city water lines scar
six miles east, engaging the clutch
of double-wides trailers and tidy old houses. Maybe I’m jealous,
stuck in my city apartment, surrounded by Postmates
and concrete. But I have once dreamed of the idea of home,
of an acre or two somewhere away. Dreamed of grass
and the kind of old trees folks chopped,
maples too close to stone four-car garages.
Can you hear it?
The oceans of another world
lapping against the edges of our reality.
I can almost taste it…
seasalt sharp on my tongue
mixed with a thousand other flavors
our ocean could never have.
that old-new magic feeling
springs wild
like hormones kicking in
and we smell hope
from the seventh grade
make plans
believing limitations are illusions
that crippled our parents
but don’t apply to us
The epicenter is miles away,
armed intruder in the night,
a triple homicide.
I feel the thunder of your passing.
weight hanging heavy
before words begin to form meaning.
The aftershock continues to shatter
vulnerable vessels careening,
weeping family.
Fourteen is way too young to be taken
bleeding out.
