Poetry
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When my bones shake off this spirit, bury mein the Valley of the Kings! Let tomb robbersanoint themselves egyptologists, drinkclaret from my skull, eat caviarfrom my kneecaps. To them remains the sun in the sky, its fleet of swift-footed cloudsand itinerant condors. The rainbowand the aurora, the sleet, hail and shower.The star and streak of…
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O spinning wheel of my mistakes, splashyparade of my charlatan past selves. This splitin my skull might never mend. Stitchesof the prior evening find flame, eruptand take a dark cold hold of my hand. Behind the shock-orange of my shut eyelids,neon words strobe, in a crookedscribble, repeating: What have I donelast night? What have I…
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Clouds hang unmoving in the windlesssky. The one tree just waits. Appalledat the asphalt. Taken aback by the baldlie. All joking aside, it’s a menace. My desk hulks like a boulder in the officeupstairs, accumulating tasks. Wiredfor work and work alone. Yet here I cower,limbs limp, a heart-sleeved mislaid puppet. That is to say: The…
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Wherever thistles wither, little knotsare knuckled, blossoms rot, leaf and stem.Stitches loosen at a dress’s hemwhile a mother jangles thimbles in her pockets. The myriad ways to savor a Highland Scotch:this churning storm cloud; the annoying friendtwisting in one’s chest; the scar beginningto itch again, with a picture yellowing in its locket. A melody wafts…
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Mourning. Choked and cloakedas a hung monk. Sky-buried. Wings a heart-splayedrain of answered prayers,folklored antlers, sick-green, rare as the small alabaster spineof a four-foot dragoncoiled under glassin a cloud of formaldehyde. originally published in Albatross #27
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Who will remember your name?These breeze-combedtrees with theirthousand hushes. Under the thunderon the tall white porch,a mislaid teacup catches rain. Name me one thing morebeautiful than a livingbeing’s laughter. originally published in Albatross #27
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I paid attention, recordedeverything: redbig moonrise, quick over cloudbank.The sourmilk scent: mums wilton my altar, flesh ashing,cymbals. All of us clanging: “Wrong,wrong, wrong.” The fruitoffering baked into an ache. A beautiful brighthouse of slightblue to walk through,its name “Tomorrowand the BigSky Who opensUp With It.” Sliver of lapis in my changepocket.My thumbnail hill-lost,wandering your clavicle.…