Oct 02

Sweet Mischief

Growing up is being given things–
Memories, most typically recounted by your mother as she finishes cooking dinner

About how much you loved playing on the roadside,
blackened-by-exhaust piles of snow when you were four

          I thought you’d knock your baby teeth out. You never could stay still.

These memories are almost always said slowly. Laden with thought and caution, and care

Unfolded with a gentle hand.
Her back is turned to you, who quietly sits, waiting at the table for dinner and to feel whole.

She adds the last handful of sumac to the cast iron pan, and her voice becomes obscured by the vent
That fills the house with the heavy, unmistakable aroma.

Mujadara, now steaming from under its lid 

Sometimes you don’t know what to say
When you hear these stories,
Years of your life you hardly know

And you have no such stories to tell. 
Oct 01

With Time I'll Heal

So, she sat there, mouth-breathing for quite some time. All day, in fact. She couldn’t help it--she could still taste the cloying salt that lingered in the back of her throat. One of many physical remembrances of her romance with the sea, her bloody, suffocating romance, which had taken place in the crux of the night, where most everything was shrouded in deep black, save for the stars.
Aug 22

3x5, Glossy

It’s always slow-going when you decide to pull the heavy book
from mama’s shelf
to find those pictures from when you were young.

You settle down, and feel the saturated CVS paper and

You stare because its funny,
That your dark, wiry hair was once light and short and honey brown

And because that was back when you wore your emotions on your face.

Bewilderment, and sweetness and Unknowing

You were still searching; eyes full of
intrigue and widened from the harsh flash of the camera.

And you stare because your mouth was caked with chocolate ice cream and, over your protruding belly, your
shirt was lovingly adorned with the runaway drips.

You stare because
you feel no tether to the young body that presents itself, oblivious to its surroundings, untouched by
illness and sadness and pride.

Go on, take the book, but after
Dec 19

Alice Paul, Suffragist

Sep 21

The Insistent Depth of One Hour

Sep 08


A steady hand,
And moving mind.
Give me time and I am sure to listen.
I yearn to move through my own force and your patience.

Arriving amidst the weavings of swallowed carpet. Shadows disperse, as frightened birds find a stiller wind.
And I see them pour across your feet.

In a sticky, stinging world,
Did you come in search of me, or did you

Give me time.
Sep 05

Of Beach Plums

Don't cry, Tee Bear, or you'll run
out of tears.

With phone calls and phone calls and not knowing
Faces toward springing terror each time the automated chord rises.
And a family being tugged on at all angles.

Mama, red eyes are a call to all I feel I can never change.

You say I know, I know
You don't look me in the eyes, running out of tears.
Sep 03

Safe, in a world unlike my own

I didn't get there at 4.
But to be away from here,
4:16 PM
and I wasn't here. Not by the mirror I eyed
myself in until I saw nothing.
I went to the beach, and this time all I brought was a book.
Sitting, to be judged by the vast expanse of sea, I am
the cat hiding behind the spiraling bush.
Of times I sang to it after years of quiet. Gentle strokes.

Rays of fur and lanes of lavender.

Of stepping on every slab of stone, even when my legs have grown far past their timid strides.
The stationed green swelling from the slate's embrace.
Of the days when conversations didn't concern me. Cocooned in heads far higher than mine, and arms that hold all that rushes by us.

Of the slow hum of wild hair. And a day at the beach.
Sep 02

Even the Swans

Sep 01

A Sweet One

It was quiet in the car ride. A waiting,
Calm captivation.
The kind that makes you feel music ease over you. And your eyes fall to the washings of leaves across the street.

Trembling in each dip of wind. You watch them cry at the edge of the cars run.
With an animals scurry and trance, lighter than the air as

The leaves turn, you see each color, warn to soil, and pasted to sky. Their nimble limbs scrape edges with asphalt. And you want to hear their slow sheen of through a dewy windshield
but the music rings so beautifully.

The music that is a sad call to something you've never known.