Posts for June 16, 2026 (page 4)

There is a golden glow in my room

Polonius told them that they’d live to regret it,
but neither of them decided to listen.

Pa George fried Spam almost weekly;

with rice at Thanksgiving dinner,

or eggs in the morning.

He was native Hawaiian.

I think it reminded him of home.

I can’t recall ever eating

Spam he cooked for breakfast.

I was a picky eater then,

and he always made me something different.

I hadn’t yet been to Hawaii

didn’t understand the connection

how the saltiness might remind him of his home shore

or the musubis he got at the ABC store.

I make Spam & Eggs almost weekly.

It’s a quick and simple meal.

The kids will eat it.

I’m reminded of his bright white hair

his rough hugs

specific and warm voice

like melted butter and syrup on fresh pancakes.

He would have loved my wife

and my babies. He always said

he loved us the most when we were small.

I make Spam & Eggs almost weekly.

I think of the man who taught me how to shave

how to cut grass the right way

how I held his hand and he told me

“I love you dude”

his white Impala I drove

and the way the room

freeze-snapped cold

when his final breath rattled out.

Somewhere over the rainbow

he’s watching, waiting for us.

Gnarly toenails he never cut

in Birkenstocks far before they were cool.

He never let anyone buy his meal

but his presence alone was already

a debt unable to be paid.

I make Spam & Eggs almost weekly.

I miss my Pa George even more.

Ginger hot against those tiny taste buds that hold tightly to my tongue

My laugh boisterous echoing against dinner plates

Our fingers suddenly laced as your thumb dances with mine

Such the sensory experience of seeing you, knowing you

Smells of spices taking host in my nose

But I can still smell your fragrance on my dress

Cheeks flushed from cheap dinner wine

And maybe even from my bashfulness

Bellies round and too full only softened 

By the telling of our stories way past removed plates 

Muggy summer heat makes us both glisten

Under the yellow bulbs

Your smile ever slightly softens

As you stare deeper into me

Past the surface and to my soul

I remember the bicentennial.
Tall ships sailing into New York
and Boston. Fireworks lighting
up Lady Liberty.

I had just started college then.
I drank up the glory hallelujah
never thought of the stories they
were leaving out.

The original sins of slavery,
of the obliteration of native
peoples. Of the cage match game
of pitting the second generation 

citizens against the newest 
newcomers. I never applied its
lessons to my ancestors who,
in their first generations,

died in the civil war, or fatally
polluted their lungs
in Pennsylvania coal mines.
and now it’s America 250

and according to those
in power, if your ancestors 
didn’t fight in the Revolution,
you don’t belong here.

Since childhood, one of my favorite trees,
the honey locust with its long, sharp  

amber thorns. One stood in our backyard
at the crest of the hill we loved to run down.  

In recurring dreams, someone chased me
with a knife. I’d take flight at the driveway’s turn,  

land in that locust—our variety thornless. 
I remember its long, leathery seedpods,  

hanging clusters of heady-scented flowers
that bloomed around Mother’s Day,  

how their tiny oval leaves sprouted yellow-
green in spring, then darkened, until in fall  

they streamed golden-yellow like fringe.  

Dizzy Dean told me to stop there
I had spent the night
Leaving, going deeper into Indian Country
Order the Navajo taco, he says

So I drive, driving deep onto reservation land
Foreign land, not for the white man
Park at the tourist center
Walk inside, sit at the counter
Order a Navajo taco

Indifferent native waitress
Drops a heavy plate in front of me
Largess fry bread adorned with beans
Tostada style

From my seat at the window
Broad, silent beauty
Pristine, protected reservation land
The taco fulfilled its promise

i rank songs
and live inside
their sweet melodies

embody that
heartbeat one
about loss

you’re
losing
me?

Not yet, I scream
(internally, as this is an office),
caught scrambling for le mot juste
to fill the precise space of a particular
thought, clinging to a cursor the size of Texas
fading in and out, playing peekaboo with realty,
a frantic SOS mimicking my shaken hand and
the heart in my throat, limp and heavy
beneath an unblinking eye, a second, third—
direct windows to god—looming overhead,
and the taught curves and sleek legs and
sturdy cores in each chain of back-to-back
letters return the glares, holding this space
unfazed, fearless as the hour they were created,
and though I can’t protect them from judgement,
from the world’s scorn or resentment,
I can admire their naked confidence—beautiful
and innocent, and entirely absent of shame—
from the margins, desperate to draw the page
lovingly about their necks, a thin,
digital curtain concealing the darlings
whose slaughter I must witness
as testament to the hope it takes
to birth an idea. 

I blink slowly to tell you I love you
because that’s the way that cats do
from across the room. I trust 
the movements of your fingers
as they cross my pockets.

My wallet bleeds on Fridays when I want
to show off appetizers. I buy memories
with minutes I spend outside myself
and spend them with you. With you,
the ball of energy that brings time
to a standstill. Every syllable is jelly

and I wiggle with your last movements:
a twist, a promenade, a flair. I stare
at the person who brings peace with a storm.
Breathe lightning against my neck 
and hold me through the thunder
that sunders my security. Is

this love; this complex amalgamation
of strife and sex appeal? Where
do I belong? Your table? Your bedside?
The future? Befitted with glitter
I walk down a path, and I am lost.
Which way is up…down…left…center?
Am I me? Are we free? 

What is we?