There’s a quiet beauty 
in the things you know won’t last 
moments already fading 
even while you’re inside them. 

Like a perfect cheeseburger 
and a good New York Knicks team on the TV, 
sitting beside your dad on the couch, 
both of you pretending the season might finally mean something, 
laughing at the same missed shots 
and talking during commercials 
about everything and nothing. 

Or a melting ice cream cone
on a burning summer afternoon,
sticky sweetness running down your hands
while you stand beside your nana
who wipes your fingers with a napkin
and tells you to slow down
even though the sun is already winning.

Or the wild splash of cannonballs
into a hotel pool on vacation
your cousins shouting,
water flying everywhere,
the future still wide open then,
before time and distance
quietly turned all of you
into strangers.

Or that last awkward conversation
with your great-grandmother
the one where you didn’t know what to say,
where the room felt too quiet
and her voice too fragile,
and you thought there would be
another visit,
another story,
another chance to listen.

There’s beauty in those moments
because they are already leaving.

Because the burger gets eaten,
the ice cream melts,
the pool empties,
the game ends,
the voices fade into memory.

And only later do you realize
the real sweetness of it all

that you were there
while it was happening,
holding something brief and ordinary
that time would never give back.

I am a poet. I take the words and I turn them on their heads until the juice runs out. It is red and sweet, like strawberries. I sit cross-legged on lilypads, watching meaning watercolor itself onto the pond. I rust like clockwork in the rain. I once held a staring contest with God. He won. I went home and searched for four-leaf clovers with a microscope. I do not get lucky. I write poems about the way the light hits the edges of a wineglass in August. I am a poet. I am the beating heart at the end of sentences. They put me there to keep me alive.

There was a man who worked on the corner of Bellevue and St. James six days a week, who only came out at dusk to have a smoke. I usually saw him from a distance, across from the park. He was weary, very weary. He always took off his dirtied blue apron and wiped it on his soaked brow. He always stared down at the steps he was sitting on as he took long drags on his cigarette. His guests would mutter among themselves as he squatted outside. But he never cared. It was his establishment, his house. 

Today was like any Friday, except that this particular sunset was casting an exceptionally fiery hue upon everything. Besides that, the street hummed with the normal sounds of evening commuters going home, or for the young people, going out. It was going to be a busy evening, he said to himself. He squinted at the park beyond the bustling street and gazed numbly at the fat red sun drowning under the park's horizon. 

The man took out a scarred leather notebook and a stick of crisp charcoal. He cut to a clean page, and began sketching, of what I did not know exactly. I always saw him drawing. I think it was only natural for him to have this ritual; he did it to alleviate his mind from the repetitiveness of his labor; he drew so he could stay in control. From his perspective on the steps I could only imagine the world being nothing but the same every day. Perhaps he was looking for, or imagining, a change in his monotone world, something different each day to sketch, something that contrasted with kitchen work and orders. Or perhaps I was overthinking it. 

The red sun was gone, and the white street lights flickered on. The man blew the excess charcoal off the pages and snapped shut the old leather covers of his notebook. He stood up and ground what remained of his cigarette underneath his heel. The sky was starting to turn purple. He straightened his apron, checked the street, and breathed one final breath of the fresh outdoor air. He opened the door, and resigned himself back into his old domain. 

Once upon a time,

A woman won a lottery.

But she did not keep

The tens of thousands of dollars.

Where did they go, then? 

They couldn’t have disappeared,

Couldn’t have been thrown down,

Couldn’t have been thrust,

Every single dollar,

Into the lake.

She loved a young man once,

One that loved her back.

They loved each other,

Stuck flowers in each other’s hair

Joked like little children

Ran around, laughing

Went on walks until the sun set

Wore matching clothes

Made light of every little thing, just for each other

They grew old together, 

With wizened faces

Crinkled eyes

And deep smile lines

On one cold night, 

The man noticed she was shivering,

So he put his blanket on her,

Even though he was cold too.

He soon caught a cold,

And his health was ailing.

One day

They were walking

To the grocery store

And the old man tripped 

On a stone,

On the bridge over a lake

The old woman tried to help him

But she was too frail,

And he was too heavy.

He was lost,

Straight before her eyes

And she couldn’t believe it.

She had a heart attack,

And was sent to the hospital.

When she was healed, 

She mourned for her husband

And spent days at home,

Doing nothing,

Downcast,

Sullen,

Depressed.

The old woman 

Downed cups of wine,

Started to gamble,

And lost game after game

Until she won the lottery.

But she did not keep the money,

She rushed to the bridge, 

And threw the money in the lake

So that her husband could spend it

And be well fed.

She knew 

That when she died,

She would be placed into the lake, alongside her husband

Where they could spend their days together,

With happiness

And fortune.

Trapped in a cult

like father, like son.

Bowing down to prejudice,

is this really what won?

The day after the election

all my eyes could pour

were endless tears,

crying hope for no war.

On the floor of bathroom,

face buried in wet palms,

dreading the cheers,

the chants and the songs

that people would sing,

ignoring the blood

of their fellow Americans,

but not theirs, so why run

from the felon in office,

later found in the files.

Ignoring the questions,

telling reporters to smile.

But he should really destroy

the immigrant disguise,

reveal his billion-dollar strategies,

catch his subjects by surprise.

Idiotic enough to believe,

even crazier to stay.

Shrinking their heads to fit red hats

that should be thrown away

into the garbage that contains

the common sense of the president,

you would think he'd know it's gone,

but I guess he hasn't realized it yet.

Discrimination and deception,

the two main parts of his plan,

but I thought no one was illegal

on stolen land.

Now these all could be misconceptions

but since that's not correct,

all I can ask is

is it 2028 yet?

Pledge your life to liberty and justice,

raise your hand and take an oath to serve and protect,

who are you protecting though?

I watch the news and see agents hurting the innocent,

children,

our people.

Pleading self defense at a trial that will never happen because you're just another weapon the government wants to protect,

tell the reporters you were in danger,

were you?

or are you the danger.

Is it life or death for the ICE agents when the people protest against you?

Or is it life or death for them?

the people are sacrificing their lives to make a difference,

using their voices as weapons against the government,

but we are being silenced with firearms.

Renee had a family,

Alex saved lives,

and you took theirs.

You get to go home to your family tonight,

have a nice dinner with your government salary,

but when you turn the TV on and watch the news I hope they haunt you.

Sincerely,

We The People.

The beetle flies into 

the lamppost until it 

falls dead on to 

the harsh concrete below

But you want it pretty

But you want it poetic

But you want it meaningful

But you want it bearable

The shiny, green Junebug

drawn to sweet, golden

death, flies into the

captured sun until it

is taken by the

Indigo skies, by the

pinprick stars and the

moon-bright, westward winds

The gemstone-like bug

like my sweet icarus

flew too close to

the endless liquid fire

And so the 6-legged

angel falls, falls, falls

into solid seas of

man-made rock and

it is not remembered.

It is not remembered

as anything but an

insect, a dirty bug

And I made it 

pretty and poetic and 

meaningful and maybe he

will be remembered now

Because a beetle flew

into a lamppost until

it fell dead into

the cold world below

lights flash / bodies bend / like the minds behind the bathroom stalls / polished tile instead of varnished gym floor / soles (souls) unfit for dancing attempt to replicate that short they stumbled upon last night / dial of pressure cranked to red / while she focused on the back of his head / meanwhile: feeble silver light reached a pale hand / through shuttered windows / I lay there in bed / without worries of a text I didn’t send