Horticulture

  Let’s say I take a bite directly from this tree—straight from the bark. What would you do? I understand. You are worried. You, all moon, all pure, imagine the splinters between my teeth, permanent there like small skulls. It becomes pointless to argue with you. All theories of health and connectedness are lost in…

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The Promise

  Let me make this perfectly clear: the iron is leaving my body. The calcium, the heat. The organs like cold compresses. Her own, smaller body inside my own is jarring, moving against bone and blood. It pains, and yet it tells me she is still breathing. The flowers are blooming again. A night owl…

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Sometimes: A Secret

  There is a faun that passes through my backyard, only sometimes, and the bald tip of her tail and her limp are unmistakable. If she comes in the late afternoon, I lean my body against our porch door, and she freezes for me. The sun highlights her, an ear twitches. I can’t help but…

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Rhododendron

  I am unsure as to where this flower ends or where it began. The small connecting limbs, hidden behind the round series of heads, the seeding centers, their odd tears around the edges like teeth. There is something oddly promising about these flowers—you see, they have appeared in my poems before. As children, as…

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August Poetry Postcard Fest!!

  A writing challenge! For the month of August, I will be writing a poem each day as a part of the August Poetry Postcard Fest. Unfortunately, I will not be an official part of the Fest this year, so I’m adjusting the rules a little bit, as far as sharing goes. The rules are…

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Pomegranate

  This is how it happens—he lifts the dress above your head and brings it down around your hands. You become a peacock, all feathers, all lace. You breathe deep, shrinking your frame as he fastens the eye-hook, zips up the dress. Then, the shoes—crows’ feet— and you are ready. As you are presented, you…

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Ultrasound

  The body is pregnant                     with limbs and dismemberment—they tremble                     and clutch. Their mouths are open and closed again, the green bodies                     like ghosts                     turning over, a foot thrusting outward, another hand reaching                     gripping                     emptiness. It reaches for you and gathers nothing, is not angry—tries                     again.                     This is how you know these are the earliest…

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Umbrella: Customer Care

  Humans are a series of feathers left inside-out. You are out in the rain, pacing from one eve to another, looking up at the splintered gutters, left cracked from last year’s Michigan winter. At the door, you take the world inside—one footprint from the dirt path, a stone from the park. Then, the disconnect:…

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Tornado

  Before you know it, the earth takes on an extra layer of skin. The wind is whipping, whistling, and when you look outside, you realize this is how everything communicates: We speak. We destroy. And then it’s over. The world may have a few more years—and then all the buildings and swing sets and…

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Tenacity

  It’s this simple: the first relationship is nothing but a series of elephant bones— the dust and chalk that stumbles through the mouth. The body is fragile, indiscriminate, pining for what is lost in a field, or has never been given. You spend your time shedding the skin, the old bone, in place of…

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