Here, Where He Waits

The soft rolls of green

sway like the tips of boats,

or ripple like pond water.

Green, billowing, a soft pillow

for the white tummies of does.

It folds and curves to the horizon until it

fades into azure.


Slouched in the shade of the Climbing Tree,

he stares, waiting, for the strict sun to meet the earth.

Here he feels the wind as though diving

through the crisp, pellucid pond.

Here he listens to songless birds,

the shimmer of the red oak’s leaves,

here, where time slows.


And through the green a boy wades

as crickets whir,

as the sky blushes orange,

Queen Anne’s Lace spilling from his fingers,

here, where they don’t have to whisper,

“I love you.”

Of Course

His eyes were

bottomless pools of


glistening in the-

They dissect my cheekbones,

my jaw, my brow,

they weave themselves into my-

Me lips shiver.

I suck in,

“Would you marry me?” I stare

with a shuttering giggle but my eyes don’t-

He dissects, picks, pull

up at mine inches above his-

“Of course,” they shimmer,

“Yes,” he whispers.

Acquisition of a Gem

It’s 23 degrees and the “stars” of Gemini are falling,

a beach blanket shields us from the moist grass.

I nudge myself to sit between your legs so your warmth can engulf me,

your arms secured firmly around my stomach.

I explain that “shooting stars” aren’t really stars

at all, but remains of comets stuck in orbit that crossed ours

and is burning in our atmosphere,

you snicker, “Lame,” warming my ear with your hot breath

and it reminds me of last August,


at my pool when I bobbed up gasping

and you popped up 30 some seconds later

and sneered, “You’re outta shape.”

And I replied, “You’re a whore.” Splashing you.

“Your mom’s a whore.”

“Your dad!”

“Your cat!”


You shift your hand to point at the sky,

“There’s one!”

“Poo, I missed it.”

because I’m not looking

at the sky but at your hand,


that grasped mine while we teetered two stories up on the edge

of a bridge whose lake glistened like crystal,

“Ohmygod, no! We’re going to die.”

“I’ve done it tons of times, c’on,” you roar while leaping

and yanking my hand and my arm and me down too.

I felt my stomach wedge into my throat that smothered my scream

and my limbs as though unconnected to me and I thought that

that second

would be


Then there was


and a diluted emerald green

and your eyes squeezed shut

and I wanted to keep it:

the silence,

the green,



“There’s another. Man you suck at this.”

I push a giggle through my clattering teeth,


I turn to kiss you on the cheek but you

intercept it with your lips,

“Whore,” I mutter, and

with the glint of the waxing gibbous I notice

how your eyes seem

emerald, and

I know I’ve kept it.

For Grandpa’s Birds

His fingers coil
around the hammer handle,
like a clay pot
around young roots,
and strike after strike
no matter his scars
like grains in the wood,
his fingers curl,
dewy, bloated
like an overripe tomato,
imbrued from mis-hits.

Finally, he
unties his fingers as if
unweaving fence-vines,
rustles over the little home,
and exhibits it on a
palm pedestal:
a place for birds to sleep.


My fiancé kicks the door open, glaring at

my smuggish smirk.

“Here,” he hisses, slapping

a plate of secrets onto the table and

demands, “If you’re so damn starved,

stop staring at me and eat it already.”

I lick each one,

snaking my tongue through

her foreign,  sandy peach chap stick,

zangy bits of vodka-soaked liver that slitters

across my tongue,

crusted blood, saliva, and shards of teeth

that caked his fists

trickle down my throat,

brackish soaked button downs ,

girls and girls and girls and girls and girls and girls,

jalapeño burning of his boss’s words,

scalded, acidic aspirations,

bitterly shunned mother,

squirmy, wormy morals,


spewing it onto the plate,

throwing back the chair

and declaring,

“I’m not hungry anymore!”

The taste tattooed on my tongue.

He was

He was the one who held the fire

that sparked orange desire onto me,

He was the one who made it flicker,

who made me dance and who knew

where the orange rays did not reach.

He was the one who held the fire,

He was the one who saw the white ridges

of sad rash decisions,

He was the one who held them from

splitting me apart and filled those trenches.

He was the one who held the fire.

The Season of Loneliness

The Wind’s feathery tentacles makes my fingers tickle

because it’s not the moist chlorine I thought

I was diving through.


The Pine’s scent makes my memories itch

for the steam of pumpkin-coffee-sipping in the front yard ditch,

cupped by the curve, watching the bat’s inaudible pitch.


The Air’s sharp taste makes my body wish

for the lull of the park’s ebony- swing,

the chushhhing of the golden buckled leaves.



In the winter when alabaster shards flitter down

like the leaves once did,

I’m constrained by pseudo-fire and artificial skins.

Someone I Used to Know

Do you remember when all three feet of us were guiltily smeared in my sister’s makeup,

when I laughed at your tears at your birthday party when a clown showed up,

when our moms shushed our giggles at church,

when we purged our secrets into a box

 and buried it under the climbing tree,

when you pushed me into the creek

 and I took you down with me,

when we whispered about boys

and former innocent things,

when we mended each others’ wounds into scars into bittersweet stories,

when I wailed “I’m done” but you kept me from,

when you first heard freedom and followed the sound,

when I couldn’t find a way to get around the trench you left…


Do you remember when

we used to be best friends?


In the morning I
sit in silence,
not a whisper do I hear
but the ocean of my ears.

At night I drive,
the silence tastes like
moist Italian bread,
cooling in my head,
I hear no wind in my
veins, no pump in
my heart.
I can hear no sounds,
but the silence start.

In the day I
listen to silence and hear
all he has to say, and
when he’s done I,
wish him a good day.