Skip to content

Tag: relationship

Speech Impediment

You often says things in which
I can say little in return—my growing

deficiency—and the sky turns yellow.
We lay a blanket in a field in the middle

of nowhere and return to find it
covered in earth that cannot grow.

We lie in this space and stare
into a sky filled with clouds that are

lined with mildew. It begins to rain, and
we take in the moisture

and softly blossom with pastel-
colored flowers. We lose the ability

to speak, to use our peripheries,
only knowing that the other lies

under the same sky, forming a hill
in the same space. Like-minded flowers.


A Poem–different from my usual work


It is without a word that you
follow me outside

like a lumbering shadow.
We reach the sidewalk, our steps matching.

Wind tangles in my hair as we pass
apartment doorways and windows.

It is when we see the shadows
of two people making love

through an illuminated curtain
that we realize I have been out of touch.

We stop under a tree that reminds us
of a cherry tree, the pink blossoms, and

your breath falls down my cheeks, my neck,
warm against the still-crisp spring air.

Then we are warmer, the touch of lips.
We say nothing, the fog of breath

accumulating, and finally we walk on,
the crunch of tree seeds under our feet.


When He Asked Her to Turn Him into a Poem

She removed his shirt
and pushed him

into the moonlight.

He became all silvery skin.
And so she painted him—deep black

covered portions of
his arms, his hands, his face,

until finally she moved him out
of the moonlight.

He disappeared,
except for a hand here, a limb there,

and also his eyes, the pale blue,
that reminded her

of the moonlight.
He was only floating pieces,

shining. And silence.


All Memory

It was late, and the sky had long past
burst and cleared into stars

when it ran from the trees, like a mass,
illuminated into white and fur

in the headlights. Its eyes were like two pearls.
I watched as it tumbled away

into the darkness, that broken filament,
and I waited until they came

to carry it away. They were two
silent meadows, eyes never reaching,

mouths never turning. I watched
the moon drift down on the horizon,

and it reminded me of the way
we stopped loving each other.


Near the End of It

As I move through this evening,
I am reminded of you.

During the winter which beat
my skin raw, we tried to be someone

older. We attempted to speak like birds,
all sound in the early morning glow,

the pink dew and raw strawberries.
You became all hands,

you like a converging horizon, and
I was forced to dream of you—

I watched as we changed, and found
we had spoken like horses, all mane and eyes,

treading softly on what would be
paling sunlight.


Photo Shoot

You stand suspended, the ladder
which seems

to swim

against a white ceiling. I lay
in a curve of color—I imagine

somewhere, the wind is blowing.

You tell me to look deep
into the lens, eyes conversing, and I do.

Inside the barrel, there are woods.

I find a tree, when, in the light,
it looks like a phoenix,

taking off.