haunted melodies seep through my bones
caving from the weight of distant memories
wrought by roughly-hewn and calloused hands
intent on ruination.
imprisoned in a dissonant convent garden
stained glass depictions of christ long-shattered
my body bruised for the pleasure of a merciless god
shackled by a prayer for salvation.
03/12/2023 London, United Kingdom.
Mama,
I am writing you from Westminster Abbey. I remember
you in places like this. All holy, all full of loss. These
stained glass windows remind me of that small Pentecostal
church you raised me in. I know I’ve made you proud. Kindly Deliver To:
Today, I stood at the High Altar. The silence, smothered Tal Martin Cemetery
with incense and memory, reminded me of how your hands
held a tambourine, how your voice trembled through tongues.
This place echoes between the veils of life and death. You
would have loved the high ceilings and marble statues, but
I know those streets of gold you walk are more beautiful.
I still wish you were here.
With much love,
Your daughter
P.S. Happy Birthday.
late day sunshine
I’d like to get out there
investigate what’s abloom
gather my thoughts, while walking
invite myself to rest
consider gratitude
offer a tiny prayer, or two
invite the warmth I hoped for
not so long ago
I carry my coffee down the green slope,
plop into a blue swing hung from an oak
(that’s survived a century!), and I scope
out the deep sinkhole. A cat creeps by, pokes
his pink nose in. Does this young country bloke
see what I see? A hole wider this spring.
Tragic what constant heavy rains still bring.
I swing high, look away, to what remains—
think how to protect, safeguard what’s now left—
think about all our struggles to stay sane.
(For a wonderful example of this dizain form,
see Bill Brymer’s on June 4th!)
he tells no one
his plans
at the hotel
by the interstate
where he works
the front desk
his mother drives him
to the airport
her vape
on a chain
around her neck
half-asleep
he checks three
sunglasses
cough drops
lip balm
and deep stacks
of money
his plane lifts over
keeneland
calumet
he watches bluegrass
fall away below
he hopes to hold
play deep
better than last year
watch for
dealer error
weak players
cards are important
luck, essential
he flies over
the desert
practices breathing
and thinking of her:
the little possum under
the rose bush
in the parking lot
this morning
eating a pizza slice
soft and feral and scared
I don’t think anyone lives there now
The balcony blinds are closed, quieting
All inquiry, curious questions
Like a finger raised to one’s lips
The S is fainter than the rest
A hesitation mark of scarlet, not crimson
The L-U-T bold-blazened above the door
Intimidating in presence and purpose
I see the word every morning from my kitchen window
As I Sip Pu’er tea from my contemplative cup
It dares me to open the screen & let it in
Though I am certain it could enter on its own
Morning eyes focused, fixated on the painted letters
While the cicadas weave its message into their drone:
Your actions are not your own and
Fairly or not – you will be judged by them
The person who lived here has borne their shame
As you eventually must, as well. Someday soon
I may be above your door
I turn to whitewash it from my mind
And pour another cup
I once was asked
with such a knowing look
If i felt like i fit in
truth be told, I believe we both knew
That I was the torn page in such a pristine book
My eyes glanced around the room
glimpses of man
contained
I glance back
forcing myself to engage
in our current conversation
“well it’s obvious that
I’m not like them”
I mumble with a nervous smile.
‘That’s true,
you have style,
a flare about you.”
I respond with a genuine smile
I go home and think about that interaction for a while
I don’t think I want to fit in
I think i’m okay with being the only bird separated on the wire
I think I’m okay with being an outlier.
You are the bell I ring at dawn,
the soft chime that calls light through the curtains.
Steam curls upward,
a whispered prayer rising from ceramic,
your hands delivering warmth
as if you brewed the morning itself.
You are the book I crack open with trembling fingers—
a spine worn by affection,
margins scribbled with longing.
Each page holds a secret you’ve underlined,
a line that finds its echo
in the hollows of my chest.
You are a chapter I dare not finish,
not because I fear the end—
but because the sentences breathe,
and I am still being written.
I have fallen into you
like dusk spills into city streets—
slow, golden, inevitable.
Not a tumble but a yielding,
a quiet surrender
to the gravity of your presence.
You are a dialect I never studied,
but still I speak you—
in glances,
in breath caught at the base of my throat.
You are fluency without translation,
a song remembered
before ever being sung.
You are not a man—
you are a museum of sacred things.
Stone and light and silence—
vaulted ceilings of thought,
columns carved from conviction,
paintings of every version of you
I’ve loved from afar.
Art is your skin.
Literature, your breath.
Growth is your shadow,
stretching toward something divine.
Every word we share is foreplay—
not of the body,
but of the soul unclothing itself.
Dinner with you
would not be a meal,
but a ritual—
passing meaning across the table,
wine as confession,
bread as memory,
laughter as grace.
Read to me like you mean it—
as if the stories were spells
and your voice was the incantation
that makes them real.
Tell me your dreams—
not the polished ones,
but the raw, unfinished blueprints
you sketch in the dark.
I will see their scaffolding
and climb them with you.
Let me be buried, not in earth,
but in your ordinary—
your coffee spoons and Monday gardening,
your missed calls and soft apologies,
in your quiet
when you forget to perform.
You are the only cup
from which I would drink
every morning
