He said, “You are the spring
sky full of hope.”
So I let the rainwater
soak my hair,
now he drinks as the birds
and bees elope.
(I think you’d drown
to prove to him you care).
He said, “To me you
are the summer shade.”
So I blocked the sun
‘til I was burning,
& when I fainted
he was so betrayed.
(Yet his touch will always
leave you yearning.)
I stayed when he said,
“If you’re gone I’m ...
The particle board splinters.
My rough touch is too much
for what I can afford.
This thing is precious to me
in its necessity
&now its cracks
spread across my ribs;
(I plea with myself,
it’s just a shelf,
it’s just a shelf.)
parts without places
scattered on the floor.
someone else is crying
inside my body. I live
as the lost pegs
under the dresser
drawer, lying
to my dust bunny confessor...
Maybe you thought your cup
was empty when the love came
spilling out—
your chapped lips
pressed against the rim
to wash away the taste of doubt
maybe you thought its contents toxic,
a complex bacterial court—
but from that stagnant cup
you drank a thick, sweet summer port
I know how dear the taste would be
from the cup that we now share.
I know it when our fingers brush,
when I smell your coc...
It was a question of faith.
The wind’s heavy hands pushed Monica back and away from the edge. It stole the heat from her body, pushed her hair in front of her eyes, doing what it could to draw her away from the crumbling grey rock and onto the grass.
Few things in existence were deserving of faith. If your loyalty was rewarded, it was a matter of luck, not anything divine, not anything sacred o...
mould grows in a bowl
on the floor, five feet from me,
thriving colonies,
productive in the ways I’m not.
maybe I should
let the mould take my place—
make my defeat its medal of fitness
so it can populate spreadsheets
with speed & precision;
so people will say, that mould
is such a go-getter,
such a self-starter.
Watch that mould
and see where it is
in ten years.
And its spores will
float down...
This bus station is made of negative space— a vast, flat plain of slate grey and the blot of mottled colour that is you.
City nights have no stars. Instead, the thick, navy sky is draped over the roads, a blanket fort held up by the streetlights. You look up. The uncountable homes filled with uncountable lamps and chandeliers and televisions give the land a flashlight glow— a translucent, periwi...
The blue of the night
is shallow here;
the sun’s kiss lingers
like lipstick on a cheek.
Feathers whisper
in the trees
as wings and claws
flex; the eagerness
and anticipation
stored in the hollows
of the forest
threaten to spill
out onto
the patchy brown grass.
The snow melts
before it hits the ground,
floating down on warm currents
and caught,
between blinks,
in the soft street light.
So...