Poetry

untitled

You wrote me a snack -

then delivered a meal, of you

your heart, your hands.

You, the maker. Me,

the taker. Butterflies in

poems and hard clay,

the sky and your smile

in colors newly familiar.

You have read my hunger.

You have let me read you. I need

to give, too, parts of me

we both require. Now

I offer, and you take

to my laugh, my curve, the

vintage me. I am your snack

your meal, your olives. Your dark

chocolate and bitter gin. You,

gourmand, shaper, maker -

come closer. Hunger hovers over

around and inside. Show me

the sweet sustenance in your eyes.

spiral

She

curves

and flits

fluently,

a silver specter.

She flickers. She’s been here before.

Her flares unbalance you; fierce static pricks you. Your parched eyes

bug and blink. She does a lithe fly-by, low and stealthy, trailing

your sightline, a star

shaped from dazzling ancient explosions. She hovers and pulses.

Light is now sound is flavor on your tongue is hope that she

will not disappear,

which she does, when she sees you seeing her. You have learned

about this in school. You remember that geometry

can spill her into light you will never be able to see.

She’s been here before. You think that means she’ll come back.

Queen of tenth grade geometry

Crown atilt, she perches

Lightly, edge of seat -

Pencil sharp, she draws two lines:

One angle, right and neat.

She won't ever tell us

Why bright eyes go dark.

(Royals must comport themselves

When calculating arcs).

Might we see a knight there?

Guarding, as she goes -

Floating down the corridor

And gazing at her toes.

Our solitary sovereign,

Laptop spangled, bright -

Who turns in homework right on time;

Will not go home tonight.

september fire

Queen of tenth grade geometry

Explicit instructions free him

from third period biology.

By alphabet, he is posted

behind her copper skin, teenage

dignity balled in fists. Roll call:

here, she says - here, he sways.

The bucket brigade of loud boys

she will love before Halloween

shout and break rules. He will

save her. Wrists twitch in

rehearsal: smash glass and

pull. This is not a drill.

d'un certain âge

Fine childbearing hips -

he smiled the nice smooth words, he

meant look at them real, round and rich

rich, I thought yes, but for who then, for

bearing of child, then, just the one, hips

so womanly solid and softly denied now.

Now he meant hips to suit a hungry man -

hands, mouth said it, eyes meant that sound

between murky moan and low hum,

hum of the rattly fan that cools at night

so catch my hips in motion now, watch how

I close the door even with my hands full

full of all the hours when I meant to say here

come closer, come see, hours I stood expectant,

ascendant, free, and fine.

hollows

You are sixteen and you are served a single lamb’s heart, satiny

and lustrous, arranged on a silver tray like supper for the sick.

You snap on safety-blue gloves, press the empty chambers,

take up the knife, wonder at how your smooth slicing

satisfies. You record your observations: size of a fist, whitish,

resilient. You use your blue fingers to trace bloodpaths

that warmed its undead softness. You’ve known them: carelessly

alive, white hearts yet red, filling and emptying. You wonder:

how long since this pith was full inside its frame, unwitting

and loose, its thick hollows swelling, resting and flushing?

You lay down your knife beside the abandoned chambers.

Metal rings. Meager air disperses. All sense disheartens.

perfect possibility

one clean floor, one last rock

one plate to put away, now

one still moment to know

this firm, final pang

of you, stepping as surely

as I could ever have wished

as my most perfect possibility

to learn and long and fail

in cycles of evening gold

and morning blue-gray

I see you now settled,

or searching

or troubled

and choosing

a summer stream, a ridge, a fight

a love

over and over again, seasons

of your own turning

to some end presupposed

as all you can see is yours now

as you were never forever mine

twenty-two roses

for the University of Utah football team

and the memory of Ty Jordan and Aaron Lowe

Bring roses in red boxes, for mother’s arms

for the bond, for the blood of youth

red as their numbered days, for September

and December, for young brothers.

Bring roses for the jump, for the lights,

for the MUSS, for mili in the end zone -

thundering through grievous thorns,

let love bleed. Look up, and out, and roar.

Bring roses for the champions of sharp sorrow

for jubilant redress in the bright desert -

renew pride and wonder for these brothers -

hold them in favor, for home, for family.

Bring roses for hardy Utah men, brothers

and coaches and fathers and captains -

adorn Mesquite arbors, plant vast gardens

of grief and absence and legacy and joy.

Bring roses in procession, in tight rows

horse-drawn and regal, befitting survival -

let them celebrate with roses in their teeth -

with laurels of crimson that fade, but never die.

how to move past writer's block and write the poem about the moth

You must move to the crumbled curb

where the streetlight is brightest.

Look up at the spiraling swarm -

follow the flight of the one that falls.

vision board: home

how to move past writer's block and write the poem about the moth

There should always be a fireplace

that knows how I take my coffee

A chair that listens and nods along

I’ll need plenty of paper and pillows, and

if possible, a screen door that inspires

a reluctant front porch swing

A window over the kitchen sink that

tolerates awkward pauses

And a vase of pink roses that

doesn’t mind if I wander off

I’d like to have a drawer or two

that can stay quiet for a while

A closet big enough for rage

A room for music, beauty, and age

And one small shelf for regret.

it's not enough

how to move past writer's block and write the poem about the moth

it's not enough

rondeau

It’s not enough - a house with air.

Invite the dirt, and leave it there.

Emancipate the child’s excess -

all joyful splotches, every mess

in candy-coated disrepair.

Let tiny palms hold worlds, and tear

apart what they’ve assembled. Rare -

these sweetest days, without redress.

It’s not enough.

An instant twinkles past, then where

it travels next, we do not dare

conceive. Inside of our best guess

we breathe our air, we whisper yes,

for one more footprint on the stair -

It’s not enough.

selected poetry

untitled

spiral

the mason

the wall

the ladybug

the mason, the wall, and the ladybug

Queen of tenth grade geometry

Queen of tenth grade geometry

Queen of tenth grade geometry

september fire

Queen of tenth grade geometry

Queen of tenth grade geometry

d'un certain âge

hollows

perfect possibility

the oracle's Daughter

four haiku

twenty-two roses

i picked this for you

how to move past writer's block and write the poem about the moth

how to move past writer's block and write the poem about the moth

how to move past writer's block and write the poem about the moth

vision board: home

how to move past writer's block and write the poem about the moth

how to move past writer's block and write the poem about the moth

it's not enough

how to move past writer's block and write the poem about the moth

it's not enough

selected poetry

untitled

spiral

the mason

the wall

the ladybug

the mason, the wall, and the ladybug

Queen of tenth grade geometry

Queen of tenth grade geometry

Queen of tenth grade geometry

september fire

Queen of tenth grade geometry

Queen of tenth grade geometry

d'un certain âge

hollows

perfect possibility

the oracle's Daughter

four haiku

twenty-two roses

i picked this for you

how to move past writer's block and write the poem about the moth

how to move past writer's block and write the poem about the moth

how to move past writer's block and write the poem about the moth

vision board: home

how to move past writer's block and write the poem about the moth

how to move past writer's block and write the poem about the moth

it's not enough

how to move past writer's block and write the poem about the moth

it's not enough

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