Poems
Letter in Exchange For
Painting all the spines of the books blue,
for example. Tasting me so absolutely
as to know the monsoon of my sickness.
'Letter in Exchange For.’ Four Way Review, Issue 10.
Read here.
Apology to The Narrow Moment
But my body is a narrow hull
of birds regretting the sky.
'Apology to the Narrow Moment.’ Four Way Review, Issue 10.
Read, and listen(!), here.
Believe me,
it is a red river
where sparks rise
and move past
your shape . . .
'Letter to Severn No. 1' after Fathom. The Olive Press, Issue 3.
Read here.
In Sully’s room, the pigs are sleeping.
For days, they will feel lust even
though the origin of it has been excised.
My vocabulary is risky with encryptions.
I delete viciously. Other things I write,
you will correct. How long will it take
for us not to default to a mistake. If only
ablation. Erosion. Surgical removal.
If only ghosts could melt
under atmospheric pressure
until absolute zero: no heat . . .
'Sully Writes Haikus.’ The Olive Press, Issue 3.
Read here.
In the painter’s house, we begin
with bourbon, our hair glued with bits of paper.
Orion hangs from every ceiling.
We bang our heads on clotheslines of drying stars . . .
'In the Painter's House.’ Sinking City, Issue 1. Fall, 2016.
. . . By the time
I ask you for shelter, I no longer care
if it’s going to break. Your stout hands
were rough in my hair. Remember in future
that craving brutality is a question of how
much absence the body can bear . . .
'Shelter.’ MemoryHouse Magazine, Winter Issue. 2016.
Download here.
Your hunger grew narrow, grew dark.
The stars fell in heaps. I learned to say,
Patrick is a sex addict. One of your other
women had found me, then another.
The stars fell in heaps . . .
''No Easy Stars.’ MemoryHouse Magazine, Winter Issue. 2016.
Download here.
Tell me what tastes will be left
on our tongues after the lightning
has cooled and the rain drips
'Dear Keeper of Letters.’ The Pinch, Volume 36. No. 1. 2016
I am now a librarian with restless feet.
They paw, and the place between my shoulders
hollows. I found the story you left for me
out in the snow the other night;
I held it in my teeth and carried it gingerly to my den.
I held it in my teeth.
'Now I Am What.’ Toad the Journal, Issue 5.3. 2015.
I am tired of men
who owe me nothing.
Bring me thieves obligated to lick
my salt cheeks, my gnawed lips,
beholden to build a church
of driftwood and glass
for my fickle and torrid faiths.
'To Visit Me at Midnight.’ Toad the Journal, Issue 5.3. 2015.
The milk in the fridge has gone sour, and I’m sorry
I left you to the wolves . . .
'Apology to My Son.’ Toad the Journal, Issue 5.3. 2015.
2. En L’air. In the air. We began this way: two bodies done leapt and floating, our muscles lithe with desire. Some people looked up, eyes shaded. We hung in the early light of the world, our breath whiskey-tinged, ragged. We began this way, our atoms vaulted and thrilling above the gathering crowd. And what did we see but their feet making tiny hops as if to join. We began in the air . . .
'Choreography for Brief Flight.’ storySouth, Issue 39. Spring, 2015.
They come with the first greening
hydrangeas,
with the first dark softening
of the ground.
Henry brings along some bourbon
and a shadow. In his mouth,
Pablo has a bleeding moon . . .
'Men in Spring.’ Carolina Quarterly, Issue 63.3. 2013.
We have dredged the deep water. Trawled the dark trench. Lowered lines into the North Atlantic and hoisted sea stars, heavy and dripping. Made echo maps on wet paper: sending sound to bounce off the solid down there, while the whole world went quiet and we counted the seconds on our fingers. Go push your lips up to the salty wave, speak, and wait for the sound to be returned.
'The Deep Water.’ Off the Coast, Fall Issue. 2013.