motherhood What is love if not uprooting yourself to follow impossibilitiescrossing seas and skies to hollow futures吃苦 (eat bitterness) and sun-grazed heartache.You forget your childhood but your mother-tongue clings and clenches. My grandmother used to say that… Read More »Five Poems
But what do you do when a walkaround the neighborhood meansyou might commit mass murder in mere minutes?I look down, notice a beetle hunting for a meal.A worm wriggles in desperation for the moisture of… Read More »Balancing Act
Wake upWake up now It is timeto remember the visionI gave you long ago:feel merunning fast and freenose to the groundsinging loud and clearover old brittle bonesof past lives and past lovers;a howlingwild scented freedomand… Read More »It Is Time To
you‘ll ask me what did Father see in el desierto before he died Father never told me what he saw in el desierto Father crawled into the cows’ penat night alone at first as he made his… Read More »What Did Father See in El Desierto?
a bird made of dust and blue feathers can’t be caged in a tiny match box unless its wings and vertebrae are pinned down with a needle that loves to split flesh
For Krisie a stalk of artichoke stands in a clear vase filled just below halfway cold water paired with sprigs of eucalyptus I stare and stare and stare waiting for the face of some god to speak… Read More »On My Cherry Wood Coffee Table
Coppertone blended with gravel andsweat, French-Onion Sunchips, andthe old cracked vinyl from the church van. That van so coated in melted gummy worms andtears, hymns, spoken fears, andunspoken faith in God, humanity, ourselves. The spray… Read More »The smell of sunscreen
2 AM Monday morningI wake in the night to glance outmy bedroom window. Fire wide as the western hillsand as high a red wall. In the dark it looks like it is half wayacross the field behind… Read More »We Were the Lucky Ones
Sliding my fingers along the stalk, Digging into the water, pushing each teardrop, feather light pod forward, a boat full with divers pinpricks my hand. Stripping oat stems bare, excited for the dive, loosening rope sleek, singing. Low gold rushed hills tied… Read More »Wild Oat (avena barbata)
The fucking dog is at it again / with her whole-hearted howling / barking her boredom to let it be known to the world / to let the world know / she exists / since… Read More »It’s Not Like I Want to Be a Bad Dog Owner
