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CategoryPoetry

 

sleeping bags

in a silent house, wakefulness is our cloak of invisibility so we listen to the gossamer touch of our feet on the linoleum floor echo like a shared secret and we step out into the lavender haze of 2 AM. i once wanted to tell the future but every prophecy …

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Orhionmwon

there we were, within reach of the river’s grasp, discarding our clothes on the bank adjacent to our clay pots. PUT_CH_HERour well water had receded into the earth, compelling us to P_C_Hstretch across the woods for waters, & on discovery of Orhionmwon, our first thought was to dive— frolic in …

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Machine

Say we do this again       say we know it best with our eyes closed, oiled fingertips           the thing we want is machine is mechanized tongue; in these words, in their primary shape I betray the evergreens;       nothing can stop the industry of …

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White Gladiolas in an Unused Jar

The white gladiolas were planted late, in haste, and bloom now haphazard from their weight and too much wind and wet. All summer, this weekly deluge—sometimes days’ worth of droplet to drizzle to downpour to gutters running, storm drains rushing. The season nearly gone. I’ve picked the horizontal and cockeyed. …

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Child Poetica

For the Son I Never Had The way you say “air conditioner” slays me and when you’re older, the way you cut the wheel PUT_CHARACTERS_HEREEEEEEto make a corner. Why shouldn’t we talk about what never was? Not because of a lack of love, but because of something more opaque the …

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Pier 60

Hurricane Billion Dollar Betsy roaring toward New Orleans will kill 73 people tomorrow, but this afternoon, September 8th, 1965, all these Florida boys see are bigger waves in the Gulf than they’ve ever seen. Denny, Rob, Sammy, and my dad are four wet cores of themselves — fifteen, growing into …

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Roost

When you see your mother on the floor, tears flooding splintered cracks, ¿what do you tell her? ¿What do you tell your mother when she says quiero volar de aqui like birds? Jumping nest before their wings flesh out. Crash on asphalt. Waxy beaks open then close. Open close. ¿What …

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She

when the air cools at dusk, scent of primrose on chiffon. I press my face to her shawl, inhale remnants of warmth. She is music floating up from the dining room, where melody dwindles to absence. I recoil against the fire-glow end of her cigarette. She, the honeyed hall light …

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