Category: Poetry
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Of the Past
It’s sitting in your car one winter in Rotterdam that I tell you your future. It’s quiet except for my voice like a radio buzz shaking the car slightly, and the streets are dreams with edges that fall off. We drive into the headlights, past the field that makes us feel rural, so unmoving and…
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In a Peruvian restaurant
In a Peruvian restaurantsomewhere in the LowerEast Side, I sit beside a friend,and across from his friend, and his friend’s boyfriend. Swirling the strawberry margarita around in my mouth,hoping to taste the tequila,I cross my feet under the table. Uncross.Cross.Uncross. I realize, as the ice cubesmelt in my water glass,that I haven’t said a wordin an hour…
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Regenerate
they say earthworms have five hearts. a worm cutaccidentally on the sidewalkby a tricycle wheel—i watched closelypebbles indenting my palmsas i knelt above himand apologized as he kept moving.it rained that dayand later more were scatteredin scribbled pattern,collecting on the driveway. sometimes it disappears altogetherand i can feel a space in my chestso large i…
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Hudson Valley Ruins
We found the boysenberry bush hiding near the fence in June;the wild purple seeped brilliant under the stressof my fingers held leveled to eyes. The juice shined beneath the moonof you. The summer was disaster I could feel it in my toes, obsess-ively overstepping pebbles on the trail to the pool, led by the light…
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Vision
A winter Tuesday, the citypouring fire;I fixate absent-mindedly on the glowof your lighted-bright burning limbs.The bacchanalia has arisen in the streets, and swindled you outof your sensible stare.You blend into the sidewalk, like a reptile,and change your colors;I sit on the ground, melt my fingersinto your skin, and liquidcity races by our feet.
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Sestina
i. In the Polaroid from ’81, her dress was lemon yellow. With sandaled feet, she stood like Mary, bowing her head to morning. I search her grin for veiled discontent, and find instead, a joy pooled at her mouth, sitting between the cherry lips and waiting. ii. The thick waterbeads licked my face and I…
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Stares
Stare is the sinewy fingers of waves leaving prints in the sandand 36-exposure film with 34 printsof gray sky and poignant seagulls.They are less so on repeat,thumbed through at the photo department,burnt red skin taut on a furrowed forehead. Is shoulder blades, dancing, swaying, reflecting shine from thebuzzing ceiling light,and reminding the lover of lifethen hastily flashingto…
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Port
Out in the middle of the waterwhere everything is black,the only sound the echoesof waves lapping boat sides,shadow-casting eerie green onthe underbelly of docks. On the the water’s border,with sounds close and violent,I talk to you aboutyellowjackets and dying,wondering whatyour grief tastes like. Later, breeze peeking through windows shake the sheets and stir dreamy thoughts…
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In a Peruvian Restaurant
In a Peruvian restaurantsomewhere in the LowerEast Side, I sit beside a friend, and across from his friend, and his friend’s boyfriend. Swirling the strawberry margarita around in my mouth,hoping to taste the tequila,I cross my feet under the table. Uncross. Cross. Uncross. I realize, as the ice cubesmelt in my water glass,that I haven’t said…
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Upstate
Upstate is home-town lonely but still smells sweetly uncanny. 3 hours upstate on Amtrak,head lolling lazy against the frosted window. Eyes in the reflectionare part of the murky scenery; green orbs steady on the river. Passing through tunnels, they’re all that can be seen. Step out and search the platform-greeters.From the trunk to the side seat to…
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