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
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
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
SHOPPING FOR T-REX
When I was eight years old, someone took me
to see the dinosaurs
at the museum. We were going down
a spiral staircase, glass cylinder
at the center with a T-Rex
suspended
inside. I leaned out, tried
to see its toes below, the cables. But this is how
I really remember it: part of me
is standing on the other side
of the spiral. I can see the skull
and that clamp of a jaw, the teeth
stripped to nothing but bone, no marrow, and I can see myself
leaning forward, looking down. If not for my palms
pressed white against the glass, it would appear
as if I were leaning against
the muzzle, figuring out
how to fall.
- Published by Whale Road Review
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
