I bet Mona Lisa was neurodivergent.

my landlord needed a rental 
floor to be repaired 
so he brought his cousin Jake 
to send under the house
with me
crawling on our knees then
shimmying on our backs
pulling six by six
beams, concrete bricks, wedges
and a single Eastwing Hammer
with J A K E written on the side

my landlord leaned at the opening
neither could hear
so I relayed information  
between the two 

Jake kept calling me
or himself Kemosabe 
while we jacked up the floor 
stacked the original stones
that had held for so long
smooth perfect squares
we didn’t use the new concrete 
blocks bought for the job
Jake said God could 
only make stones that perfect
and strong 

when we finished 
Jake told me this was all low coal
my landlord agreed 
from his square of light
both being ex coal miners
men now aged out 

Jake smiled at me
both out of breath and covered
by dirt, webs, and sweat
said what they had said in the mines

“it may be hell to you
but home to me”

A slug
A magnolia tree
A book
A flashing light
A stranger’s laugh
A lone cicada
Crickets

There are two on the bed—

yours and mine,

but neither speaks aloud

what they carry.

The one on the left is locked,

like the part of you

that still looks away

when I stare too long.

Its hinges creak with memory—

of hands not mine,

of moments folded and kept.

Inside:

dresses softened by years,

lace that once danced

on another kind of skin,

a scent of time,

still warm with what was.

But then—

your voice,

low and unguarded,

offers me a different key:

a question, a dare,

a walk to someone else’s door.

We laugh

too loud for strangers,

our steps unsteady

on cracked sidewalks,

but in this moment—

you let me closer

than the lock ever did.

And if the night forgets

to end just yet—

if the moon lets us wander

a little longer—

maybe we’ll unpack nothing

but a look,

and leave the rest

to dreams

that bloom between

two suitcases,

slightly ajar.

But anytime I sit down

To write something

That’ll speak to someone else

Your name bleeds on the paper

Your hair, fine but a little curly

Your eyes, stolen from the ocean

Your voice whispers to me daily

I wonder where you are,

And if you know these are all for you

And if I fake a smile,
would it you blame it on the front row celebrity?
The man who walked in while we were waiting
for the chronic oversleeper?

It’s reassurance 
it’s regulation
it’s decomposure

Antoine, the swan, hour is near

He spins like a ribbon in the wind

Yvonne, his mate, knew so at dawn;

the bronze light on the pond told her so.

Antonine burst into dance, entranced.

The dark pond ripples in response

Circling her, neck curved, eyes locked,

Each motion a summoning of love.

Their world on water and land

will never vanish in love or memory.

The soft ache beneath their feathers

crescendos louder, then louder still.

The sky cracks and bleeds slowly.

Not wanting to look away,

but knowing it must cease the moment

and take Antoine away.

In the final seconds,

the hush of their hearts beat in unison.

Soon sorrow will ask to be wrapped in light.

One slipping hurt into echo,

the other left in grief’s long shadow.

and I’m in a shopping cart
watching clouds
dart by and listening to you
your racing footsteps
and the rattling wheels
and we are laughing
creating shapes
with the fog of our breaths

Can’t think of a rhyme
That isn’t your name
Can’t not check the time
I hope you’re the same

Can’t glance at no one
When I want your embrace
Can’t stare at the sun
All I see is your face

You are light

and warmth

when my soul is frozen.

You are a symphony of quiet

when my insides

are too loud.

You are peace

in the vortex of chaos

that is life.

You are thunder,

shaking me from

stillness.

You are a brilliant light,

eclipsing the darkness

that enshrouds my heart.

You are not

mine.

You will never be

mine.

But for the time I have you—

for as long as you are with me—

I will count you as mine.

You are a facet of friendship

I never thought to seek—

nor knew I needed.