bury it down in sandy eggo
colder than grains, bluer than ocean
folding the bones, placing the pennies
whisper three days, lean in,
whisper in three days I will come for you
whisper but who knows when that will be
now hear the sirens singing softly
– had your grandmothers been to the sea?
you think you have a voice without me
you think you have something to say
the mind how it turns
me how when
my brain gets full on
knowledge dished at the
dinner table i light up like
a sparkler that won’t quit
blinking
sapiosexual & full of
want my mind is an open
book yearning for something
to pick at it & make it full
on everything new & old
mystery
the sound of Moon
murmering
lost in a mantra
words
soar like crows
ink
bloodblack sparkle
from the poet’s heart
I forgot the lipstick—
left it lounging on the counter
some shade of “Behave” or “Desire”
that never quite fit
the curve of my mouth anyway.
Didn’t blot, didn’t gloss,
didn’t paint myself
into the version of me
you wanted to kiss
or command.
I forgot the lipstick—
replaced it for natural
truth, grit,
the kind of beauty
you can’t wipe off my face.
They said I forgot it—
no,
I chose
to show up
exactly like this.
The little town had its own “Otis,”
A town drunk,
Generally thought to be harmless.
Went too far
When, instead of sitting on a bench
In front of the only gas station,
He rode the school bus,
Whiskey bottle in hand
Roaring and cussing
As children were being dropped off
After school.
Cowardly bus driver
Did nothing, but stop and call
The chairman of the school board
Took matters into his own hands
Confronted at the back of the bus
Otis lashed out
Fists flew
Fighting themselves up the aisle
Until both men rolled off the bus
Into the street
My grandfather unhurt,
The blood on his mouth
From Otis’s missing ear.
There’s a bowl of leftover spaghetti
in a stained Tupperware on the top shelf
of the refrigerator.
It’s grown a bit dry, the way day old pasta does.
Give it new life in an omelet.
Crack yourself a few eggs directly into the bowl
and whisk it.
Oil the pan and dump in the contents,
spread the spaghetti evenly throughout.
Listen to the sizzle while the eggs just set.
Gramma likes them a little runny, so flip it now
Slice it like a pizza and Voila!
Grandpa bursts out a phlegmy, Ha!
because it’s 2018 and he’s still alive
and he’s shocked that a woman who
can cook such a great omelet
isn’t yet married.
This ain’t
hide and go seek bird snacks.
Ain’t no “oh yeah, I left
my lunch there,”
for you, squirrels!
Don’t act like we don’t feed you
your three pounds a week.
This time
we’ve got netting
and a pinwheel parade to
persuade y’all away.
Look. It ruffles my feathers, too.
But there’s room. We can all grow tall.
Don’t make me plant more onions
or marigolds if you misbehave.
My brother and I dream
about the same destination:
the seminary, its bricks over our days,
the architecture of monasteries,
corridors that lead to places in my mind,
where I invent spaces that never were
but reveal in clever cloisters
where our waking journey will lead.
Second night
in my sister’s house
after the auction–
I woke at two.
I could not see the house–
only smoke, far from done
blacking all things, no blue,
no green, no white colors for
it was December and I had to
turn off the furnace.
I remember the cold most, for
I had to endure it through
March before the furnace
or
the smoke damage too
could be brought about face.
The ducts, and the cold
endured until April
and then rain, rain, again.
