I wonder what the alarm says about my bones today.
I step out of Maple View Way Estate,
head to the gym.
An old white woman waves at me. I wave back, smile.
Her dogs bark at me. Such confusion.
I practice my smile. I do it well.
“Smile” and “Late Night”
Poetry Foundation
Listen, I have nothing to say to the wren
that ruffles its feathers in my heart.
I do not swear my loyalty to men, to
presidents who walk on shards of skeletons
with a scroll of blood in their mouth.
Trust me, I owe no god my soul.
I have given all I can to the old bell
on that dusty road where tourists
walk daily to contemplate the strangeness
of God. I have trimmed my nails.
I have washed the blood of the animals
off my fingers.
“Meditation of __________” and five other poems
Only Poems
I stand on the bridge in Henley St & rehearse the words.
Back home, I take your hands in mine,
comb the sadness that has rubbed off you, mine.
Twilight, torn, dirty twinkling.
I sit close to you on the bed, your naked body
in the room’s crescent glow, a promise.
I say: what in the world have I done to deserve you?
I pick the tablets off my tongue & lay it at our feet.
“Bridges”
American Poetry Review
Almost every night uncracks the legend of an ache. The truth is:
I didn’t want to start a poem with night where there should be
a name, but this too is a misgiving—a mortal gamble, that if I am
good enough, I’d live to see another night—the bridge in my ribs
collapsed into a boon—living translated into levity. The truth is,
sometimes I want to hear the giggles of a child in the lightning—
a rhyme in the roar, something we can all marvel about.
“Plot with the Horses in My Heart/with the Birds in My Mouth”
Narrative Magazine