Jan 25


He's there, on the corner.
The kind of boy who looks
at you like the sun. 

But you belong
to warm winter rain,
the kind that buries people under raincoats
and smells waxy, like summer stars. 
He should know by now,
you told him that night,
when hands smelled like apples
and the sky wouldn't let go of its daylight. 

After a while, he'll remember what it's like to have rain
as only a friend, grow tired 
of damp hair and falling
asleep to thunderstorms.
He'll move to a place
like the Atacama,
where you have to dig
ten feet to find me. 
Jan 14


I survive on pretending. 
I don't notice 
the empty seat on the bus; 
the faraway sound of lonely 
through my foggy bedroom window. 

I'm acquainted
with everything related to the dark, 
and nothing with his hands. 

I pinch myself in the hall
to keep from looking. Or crying. 
Or both. 

I forget half of myself
under the bed
and am reduced, instead, 
to writing in the backs of books. 

I'm smothering myself,

He is the thief
behind the broken glass
on the bathroom floor. 
Jan 07

The Dreams I Have When I'm Scared of Death

I woke up crying
this morning, 
there was the taste 
of gun shots in my mouth,
the sound of your name 
stuck between my teeth. 

I remember dreaming of your hands last night. 

I missed you then,
not anymore. 
I won't let myself. 

You had build a wall of chairs
to keep out the guns.
You were afraid.
Not crying. 

I've never seen you cry.
You look at me
like you know what I am with tears on my face. 

When I looked down
there was blood on my jeans 
and it wasn't mine. 

I guess this is an apology.

I guess I'm sorry I don't miss you. 
I'm sorry that my dreams 
are coming true tomorrow. 
I'm sorry your hands are always cold.
I'm sorry thier guns worked.
I'm sorry you died trying to save me. 
I'm sorry it didn't rain for you. 
I'm sorry I didn't lock the door fast enough. 

Jan 01


Write a poem they said, write a poem about the way you wake up, the way the sun is yours at midnight. Write about the small sliver of a soap moon in the corner of the bathtub. The early morning breeze, the open window, his honey lips, the haying field beyond the brook we’re used to calling ours. This is it, the moment we realize we no longer belong only to ourselves. Now, we’re belonging to the steamy stovetop, the old clock, dirty feet, flat tires, homemade ice cream, leaky rain boots, kitchen twine, crumpled letters, beeswax, darned toes, heart patches, hand-drawn maps, warm chocolate, wind-blown linens, winter mud, the city I forget, the hands I never hold, a silent car on a frozen dirt road, finger kissing, apple shining, rock throwing, universe finding, memory collecting, cutting shavings of stolen hair onto the tile floor. The moon is not theirs and neither are we.
Dec 24


Are we leaving soon?
Sometimes questions come too frequently.
We’re breathing dust
like we used to breathe the world, and don’t care either way.

We have our faces pressed
to the window and let our noses freeze.
There will be another day-
I’ll forget again.

He loses his couch on the street
to an old lady who doesn’t know how to sit
on the edge of the universe,
or even where to find such a thing as stars.

He tells her to look up.
She looks down.

The corner is an open alleyway,
pouring people onto the pavement,
dancing in their pajamas,
unwillingly waking to an uncontrollable reality,
cautious of the crosswalks
and not enough because there’s road kill in the winter,
and ice, also.

Ideas are like tears,
the way we drip them on each other.
Thought bad but not quite.
Lonely but doesn’t realize it yet.
Dec 17

Candle Light

Dec 17

New York

Dec 14


I try to write a million things 
and never forget falling

Failing doesn't exist at the bottom of the ocean
or in the sky
or when they're sleeping

We are versions of our future selves, 
trying to get by on his smile 
or the warm blankets in the morning,
or the slight ticking from the clock downstairs 

I have imagined myself every night 
waking up,
climbing to the roof, 
finally escaping repeated timelines

There are pieces of myself hidden
in a bag, on the top shelf, in my locked closet

a collection of notes on how to survive the urban wild,
a bus ticket that expires the moment I decide 
my wanting isn't necessary

I'm surviving on possibilities 
and waiting for my chance
Dec 12

Not How We Think to Find (the long wait)