On a bent, white plastic chair, a state lodge
balcony, I see the lake, one gray corner
if I stretch too far over the rusty rail.

Decide to take a bird walk, early mist lifts
above bracken water, flush a kildeer
that feigns a broken wing to lure me

from her buff-colored eggs         balanced
on rough rocks behind field grasses
where the water licks spiny driftwood.

A tired one-car road ends at the edge,
waves from a lone john boat lap lonely
as I cross the beach, neglected, choked

with chickweed dominating concrete
that gave up the struggle. Four
bald trees line the center of the parking

lot island, six, no seven, turkey buzzards,
dark guardians of the shore entry, pleased
that the pandemic emptied human life,

here, as in whole towns, farms and cities.
No squeals of children chasing “it”
No sticky popsicle wrappers, no

drained beer cans crushed in the sand
or half hot dogs baking in the sinking sun.
Coal-colored wings snap, snap, death claps.

i’m reminded of your existence:
glimmers of light,
coming at dusk, lingering at dawn

flying fire—-
creatures of lightning—-
i love your being!

you bring me back to youth
when i loved you so much
that i’d smother you in mason jars

trying to keep you,
i wanted to feel your love,
but loved ones must be free

to leave

the quarter we shared impromptu
passing cart to cart to cart
around outside Aldi today,
it felt precious – and natural
strangers connecting,
smiles, waves, nods, kindness,
after shopping, and passing
the cart (and its quarter)
yet again, made me wonder
who started it?
whose first donation
ignited this chain of events
until it led to me?
unpacking the groceries
at home, I decided
doesn’t matter, because
for brief shining moments
we all did
our bond a community
for a quarter
would that we could,
that we should
each day

This is the first time I can ever recall,
That being present was better,
Than daydreaming of what could be.

three-year-old
eyes

twinkle with
light &

with
mischief

i am
tempted

to entertain
envy but

alas
I am

way too
adult 

for that

Not because I’m allergic,
Or because you don’t have the 
Space or time
To dedicate to this creature you love. 

Dogs complicate things. 
Make it harder to hop on a plane,
Drop everything,
Change directions. 
Not that I’d ask you to. 

Give me the garnet,
Promise me
You won’t let me get in the way
Of anything, but you getting a dog. 

I shouldn’t trust myself is becoming my mantra.
I wake past vain alarms, but if I had made myself get up
I would’ve seen the dew, the bruise-purple dawn crying 
in sympathy for me as I dream fevered of the past
and the future rotting from beyond my fingertips.
I give myself purpose in trying to kill all my time
until time kills me back. I attempt to hotwire my brain,
stare at my void face melting off my cage of a skull.
I count the side effects of what I’ve done: the dreams,
how tilting my head backwards makes the world glitch apart,
makes me wonder if I already died, how I believe now
in something larger, how I cannot swallow pills anymore.
Three months ago I became a magician. I learned many tricks:
the vanishing act, fire-eating, how to pull strange objects
from hidden places, incredible grip strength, how to live 
with a knife rammed in my heart, how to rise from the dead,
and most famously, how to predict the future again and again
and again and again and again and again. It became easy
once I learned that I’ll never change. I am starting to believe
I might be a scientific anomaly. I might be a prophet.
I act almost like a human. In the daylight I feed off of sun,
water my plants and do absolutely nothing productive.
In the night I decline my mother’s proposed movie watching, 
I almost convince myself I’d rather run until I cry. I try to bake 
and I swallow a whole continent of Splenda-sugar-cookie dough,
politely excuse myself from God’s quaint little dinner table,
disavow responsibility as one of his many beautiful creatures,
and become something ugly, ostentatiously inviting myself 
to the bathroom. I return with black tears spidering my eyelashes,
and scars down the sides of my fingers. Later I find myself 
shivering by the fireplace in the dead of summer. Blame it 
on the rain, the dark forecast for today. That’s why my bones
are packed with ice, it was a little chilly, perhaps, inside, so
maybe I should take a hot shower and burn it off, slip out
of this dress like lizard skin. I keep pretending to be
a real person, and it does not make it go away. I live
walking around the memory, and somehow find myself
creating an image of it out from the negative space. 
I do not trust myself, that was my first mistake.

you spotlight the sphere,

and with a closer look

an inclination,

your scales might shine in the right angle.

your organs stay on close display,

your molecular ribcage,

id crush you in my palm if i ever tried to get too close.

one swipe of the thumb and

your blood will wash over your iridescent skin.

i don’t want to poison your image, i just want to feel.

white sheets are stained with sorrow
quiet evenings drifting into lonesome sleep
none but a dappled black and white cat
to comfort the aching heart inhabiting my ribcage
which attempts to unravel the mysteries
of the hearts and attentions of men invading
my psyche in the form of a long-awaited drug 
proven unsafe and unregulated by the FDA
as if they were to look out for the interest of citizens
in dire need of some cure or wildly found hope

she had a craving for their laughter 

since the first performance for her mom

jokes formed by a mouth never open

and waiting for the right words to come

one day she’d chip her incisor teeth

chewing words like smile and prettier 

and counting spare change left on the bar 

licking the copper off her thumbs

shed paint her eyelids, prepare for war

drinking sewing kits, sex, and ink pens 

carry memory, her cat scarred cheek 

how bleeding felt before she’d gone numb 

little girl with skin not yet condemned 

little girl before the world had her