Month: May, 2017



You are not salt in my cuts.

These wounds are much older than you.


This is black and white;

This is the Bible:

The bump in your nose is exquisite,

your eyelashes are the only shade I need.


Even now, when you have been long gone,

your hair is in my bed

my  soap

my   hand.


But I know it’s the end.

I have kept company with many endings;

I’ve memorized the sound of their voices.

what the animals do

I’ve been thinking of you; what the animals do

frightens me. Even in the heat of the season,

when reason has abandoned me for some shade

by the lake, I feel eyes through the trees–all eyes

on me, waiting.

You told me you are a patient man,

like most wolves. There are no corners or heights

unknown to you, even in the dark.

Even in the light, every angle of your face recalls

something missing from me.



Amy wants my earrings

wants to dangle in the light

suspended like baby’s breath

away from earthen cellar coldness

Daniel bound her in hessian scrim

to congeal her luminosity

as if she did not deserve her late August blooms

as the rest of the garden did

And there were handshakes, quartz crystals

exchanged for her absence

but I see desire,

it seeps out of her slack jaw

when I go down for peach preserves

in my emerald party dress

Amy, the favorite

Amy, the temptress



How Death

I crossed the road often
I had seen what could happen
to turtles, quails, serpents
so when twin suns approached
in the moist darkness of August
I knew there would be blood
and the blow sent vibrations
through every fiber of every tree
the black land, blue jay footsteps
and while two men argued over me
my breathing softer than it had ever been
I knew how death comes: sudden
like northern winds

tiger’s bride

I went looking for the moon and I found you,

a tiger’s bride holding her shotgun ready, steady,

pretty in your damage stripes.

You said you met him on the asphalt, could smell

his cologne and leather from the tree-tops.

And when she straightened his tie, as the helicopter

ascended, you aimed, you did not miss.

You are no patriarch’s mistress.

When God was Born

When God was born, I was there.

I saw her as she slipped quicksilver

from Sophia– her hair standing tall

like fire.


When God was born, the midwife

said: “Look, she has extra digits.”

Behind her thumbs, new thumbs had sprung

to hold fast her mother’s wisdom.


Then I saw her grown, woman.

God a bride in white,

God a crone in black,

God with thumbs bent back.


And her wrath was nestled

like new life

beneath my stomach.

the stairs

ghost to ghost

we lie on the stairs

ugly, burnt orange carpeted


I work my way up her neck

she says: “That’s more like it.”

but does not kiss me back


she wants to hear every story

behind the pictures on the wall

and she leaves little notes tucked

inside the clasp of my bra


then I see her black hair

filled with wind from the west

as she makes her back door exit

Me Watching You Watching God

Did you build your A-frame house

with a foundation of wrath, regret

its point in the early summer dusk

looking over the top of my head

while I sit, feet in the creek

wondering how far back your copy

of the New Testament goes