THE ANTELOPE DO NOT HAVE EARS, HERE.

Every time I dream of you,
there is

an antelope—

standing off the curb like
camouflaged silk.

A YIELD sign
reflects

off its hindquarters.

A breeze—and the fur
glows yellow.

The area seems to whimper.

I blink, as if to say
I looked that way, too, once.

- Published by Emerge Literary Journal

PASSING THROUGH MY NEIGHBOR’S BACKYARD

Because her patio door is open, the sun
is pouring over a table

and chairs, all those rhododendrons
and pollen. In that light I can see

up the stairs and into
her living room, where the woman

is sleeping on her couch, bare feet crossed
and dangling off the end. Pink,

chipped toenails. In her sleep, she kisses
her knuckles, individually.

Stars on her hair.
I wonder where she is,

and when, and who is kissing
her hands—so slowly. The trees here

are quiet, almost courteous. They watch
over my shoulders. She moans

in her sleep. We are all such beautiful soldiers.

- Published by New Mexico Review

EXIT STRATEGIES

We are in this together: how we want for
a simpler way out:
exit strategies,

a blossom lost in a field
of blossoms.
(A shadow walks across the moon

and is gone.) Let me speak
for both of us:
we want so simply

to be erased: how the hologram
of a humpback whale
takes the plunge

into a school gymnasium floor. Its cleanup
is simple:
two clicks, and it’s gone.

Erase the tanks. Erase our fingers, for they do most
of our bidding. Pull the cloak
from the cupboard drawer

and draw it over the edge of
the world. The mess will remain hidden
underneath.

- Featured in great weather for MEDIA's 2019 anthology, Birds Fall Silent in the Mechanical Sea

DOMESTICITY

My second relationship looked something like this:

spun from what was left
in the kitchen each night, all fish

and sinew. He had the largest hands,
butcher-palms, blood under the nails,

and his teeth were white scarecrows
after too many fights. The salt-blue eyes

stared as he forced my head back
into the sink and hair down

into the drain, flipped the switch.

The teeth whirred, and the knives nearby
became birds charading

in children’s clothes. I tilted my head
farther back until I could see the sky

through the small window:
the stars were going by in small pools.

- Published by James Franco Review