The bell is old and covered with rust. 
Patches of moss can be seen on its surface. 
A frayed rope hangs down from one of its sides. 
The pieces of string are pulled by the wind as the storm blows by. 
The storm is one of those things that so much must withstand. 
The bell is like the bending trees, and it’s like the neglected garbage cans, 
Which were left outside. Now they blow down the street. 
As you watch the bell, you tend to think, 
About how each day it has another crack. Each day it has another ding, 
But each morning we can see the bell is an enduring thing, 
For promptly at eight, the worn bell rings. 
Even though the old bell has lost its shine, 
Its ring is still clear and strong every time. 

Sometimes I find myself
thumbing through faded photographs:
women in dresses that reach to their laced-up shoes,
men wearing grey fedoras and leaning on canes:
my ancestors, whether I knew them or not.
    I wonder about their stories,
about what they learned of wisdom
and where lie the connections between our lives,
theirs and mine—
and how it is that I know so little of them
and how it is they feel so elusive
and how it is they feel so near.

its not that i dont mind swimming
cool water on your skin
drying out your hair
it’ll take 3 washes before its back to normal
your skin scratchy and irritated 
but the sun on your back is so refreshing 
a warm blanket drying you while your feet kick
splashes landing on your arm
no i dont mind all that
i mind when im unexpectedly drenched 
water filling my nose 
my eyes open and unprepared, now red
the pressure of the water on my chest 
the fear of drowning kicks in 
trying to scream but liquid finds more space
my hair in my face i dont know which way is up
frantically kicking and grabbing 
only for it to slip through my fingers 
the sun getting farther and farther away 
i give in and close my eyes 
the peace of the silence under water 
i an floating in the sky no more worries
when im pulled up 
gasping and coughing 
cold hands move the hair from my face 
laughter 
how can you laugh after what we just did?

Heat swells like waves undulating off the asphalt
until afternoon rain arrives–
it sizzles and cools everything when it hits the street

The earth bathes in this glorious gift,
a brief relief from the scorching heat

I marvel at nature’s knowing
and splash in tiny puddles with my bare feet.

I love the rain because it gives me
permission to stay indoors.   

You’d think, after the pandemic,
I’d want to be anywhere but here, inside.   

But I find the world outside
expects too much from me,
demands too much of me.   

Outside I feel like I must try really hard
to give the world what it wants.   

The world is very demanding.  

It’s exhausting.

Rain lets me rest.

What you know is a lie, Normandy’s stars
are not the same stars trailing above Kentucky.
They are not as silent on the coast, glimmering
passively. They pull magnetic like the blue tide,
they spark without burning my hands, hide within
a new world, we aren’t looking at the same moon.

The people, dusting off kisses, smokedrunk,
they may shoot off lines in a difference tongue, 
and dance in foreign ways my body won’t,
but no one is a stranger. We’ve met before
through common ancestors, we’ve met 
because our skin touches the same sand.

We point at the wandering Americans
spitting chewing gum into their palms,
who practice fading to silhouettes, ask them
if they know the same things you do, run
as the French band slurs Purple Rain
and the fire on the beach burns hotter.

The boat lights sparkle like the line of blood
dotting the cut on my heel where I ran, 
wild wind-like to catch your shadow’s arm,
cracking shells into fractures of artwork.
They flicker like the fireflies that are not here,
in and out, hum the words I don’t recognize.

Unpacking the heart of the earth, we move
blessing her generously with lilting slow dances.
There is something different here separating
beyond the sea into chasms of atmosphere.
I shut my mouth and you tell me phrases
that ring around my head in the dark.

 It is not just the stars that are different,
not the people and their houses and towns,
but the I too am not the same as I was,
after soaking in too much foreign smoke,
hazing into a mirage of what I would’ve been,
and burning that image into the snowing ash.

You’ve flooded the fridge with food, 
and I want to fling it to the floor, 
flush it down any place but my mouth 
because it’s a vague identifying of 
the bean or veggie before it’s spice 
and no nuance, no taste, unlike 
our cooking you gracelessly slander
but ungratefully gobble down.

You’ve touched all the teacups —
even the one I based my debut poem
on, the one boasting pink blossoms —
and I’m typically the first to knock 
violence, but the rouge of the mug
turned red as a rage burned so,
so brightly, I’m surprised my eyes 
weren’t alight and blistering.

You’ve inspired indifference to ignite: 
congratulations, because I’ve
abandoned rhyme, rhythm, reason 
to write, forgone poetics to force out 
parasites, come up with the perfect 
goodbye (good news: good riddance!),
if only circumstance didn’t forbid 
saying it to your face 
            …but, technically, hypothetically,
            conversationally, I can’t eliminate 
            the possibility of you reading this.

misbegotten demons pour into pastures

My brain is like my computer
running out of space
slow to startup because
its memory is too full.
When I try to trash files
the Finder can’t complete
the operation because
some data can’t be
read or written
or completed without
authentication.
I am the Finder 
and authenticator
unable to trash or
delete my memories.

the Hallmark channel’s on when I get there
and the basement leak hasn’t stopped, so
in the bleak kitchen light I draw it out
like dad used to
scribbling with his stub pencil
lines to mark cobbled plumbing,
we’d figure on a fix with the fewest cuts
the least joints – to assuage future risk
draft the supply list, hit the hardware store,
and launch into it, confidence our wrench
hours later I pull off his cap, wipe my brow
under now-dripless freshly clamped plastic
and I wonder if he did the same thing
years ago when his mom had a leak
and his dad had passed, too