The Secret Keeper (Published by and nominated for Pushcart by Pirene's Fountain)
“think how long I have known these
deep dead leaves
without meeting you" W.S. Merwin
She will cradle your handful of bees,
the fire ants, your lemon slices,
and the pale green luna moth.
She will hold your mouthful of marbles,
spent matches and kindling,
the sorrow jar, and a single key.
She will carry your field of dandelions,
the slice of borrowed sky, and your twisted
river in hers until you meet again.
How to walk right through a woman (First Place Winner of the James Larkin Pearson Contest for Free Verse)
I can’t remember the curse that made me
invisible. I only know that one day
he held my hand and then another,
my hand slipped through his like sand.
I stayed in the room, an empty vase
in the dark and not even moonlight could find me.
He may have sensed my presence
as he stepped around me and around me
packing his books, clothes, toothbrush.
By morning he could walk right through
as if I were an open window,
a door, the immaterial air.
From Spill
My Rope (Published by and nominated for Pushcart by International Poetry Review)
The rope seemed menacing at first,
dangling in my closet back lit
by fluorescent light. Several days
would pass without its shadowy swing,
and then I’d find it coiled in a shirt
or sweater. Once, I found it hidden
under my dinner plate and yet, no one
saw it slip to the floor and spiral
around my feet. My chest began to sing
like struck crystal whenever I saw it.
One time wrapped around my car’s
steering wheel and finally twisted
in my purse with my lipstick and keys,
the rope began to travel with me.
I learned the rope could tie up
loose ends, hold it all together,
rock climb and even pull me
from the drowning well.
Oh the rope at night would knot itself
into a hammock and rock me between trees.
Even when it wasn’t with me, the rope
was everywhere I looked:
in the thread count of my sheets,
in the very fabric of my clothes.
In the mirror or in windows, I could see
the rope casually draped
across my shoulders, its frayed ends
lightly touching my chest.
Sounds After the Howl (Published in Pedestal)
We are swallowing grasshoppers & peppers with shots of tequila
& falling off bar stools, off curbsides, off roof tops.
We are dancing in a thunderstorm- daring lightning: Strike.
We are the tremble- a near tremor- that the dog feels before an earthquake.
We are doorknobs turning in the dark when you think you're home alone.
We are just struck matches- ablaze in ourselves & smelling of sulfur. We are
ass backwards-- shirts & skirts too tight & arms & legs too loose. A naked
ballet of back stages, back alleys, & backseats. We are overflowing
ash cans and trash trays. Our pupils are wide as abandoned coal mines or small
as nail holes. We are burnt up-- burnt out--burnt down.
We are riding too high & flying too low. We are being X'ed out
as quickly as the days on a calendar in May. We are dropping
like flies-- like leaves in fall in a Nor'easter--- like pins with our needles.
How to Stay Afloat
This morning, he’s gone when we wake up.
Amani says, Where’s Pop Pop?
Did he go to get biscuits?
I walk outside, and his car’s there,
and in the driveway,
the empty canoe stand.
He’s been threatening
to lug that old dugout canoe
into Cat Point Creek and paddle
to the small island in Menokin Bay.
On the pier I stand in the morning fog
and cold drizzle and scan the water
for movement. Nothing.
Then I hear him whistling a song.
I step to the edge of the dock
and see him. Floating with the outgoing tide
towards home, he kneels
in the canoe, bailing with a kitchen pot.
On all sides, water breaches
the canoe gunnels. He sees me
and yells, See. She still floats.