Thrilled this two poem was recently published in Adanna's Literary Journal Issue 11.

First mammogram
before the rain came
before the hurricane
before my appointment
I took a photo
of how beautiful
my body is today
to celebrate
how smooth and lithe
I felt in my own skin.
With my breast
clamped in the machine
I tried to remember
if any lover ever
pressed so tight
between the sheets
of rain falling
heavy on my window
rinsing grime and memories
with undue force
cold biting metal plates.
All relationships
need maintenance with time
in the name of beauty
in the name of pain
in the name of storms
Here I promise me
I’ll love myself
I’ll do that work
for me
for years to come.

Reconnected
to your voice
but there’s this plague
and long light years
of twisted subway tracks
between our signal reach
Out here, all
black and cold expanse
I’ve stripped down
to my ugliness
torn off my skins
unstuck the muscle from
my stubborn bones
that flash so white
in starlight
like a quasar of my need
doubt runs across
my skeleton like an
electric current
tears spark against
with jealousy, yes
I know better
I know better
I know better
no comfort to
these hapless
strings of bone
twitching
in our midnight
to your sad voice
on the phone.


***Thrilled this poem I wrote last year found a home on Bonfire Lit! ***

As the title suggests, I wrote this the morning after Trump was elected in 2016. This morning I voted against him for the second time.  Who would have guessed 4 yrs ago that we'd be voting early in long, determined lines 6 ft apart with plague masks on?  Or all the dystopian, fascist madness we have endured since his election?  This poem was published in print by Adanna Literary Journal in Dec 2017.  Good luck to us all, and what's left of our Democracy, in the next couple months.

November 9, 2016
 
 I woke up this morning
in a bed
that isn’t mine
in a country
that belongs to someone else
I woke up this morning
not having slept still
hoping it was just
our bad election dream
I woke up more afraid
for my neighbors who wear
hijabs and
rainbows and
hoodies and
turbans and
skin kissed by God
and all the young girls
who don’t know any better
I woke up with my
“I voted” sticker
still hanging
on my jacket
and my suffragist-white-shirt
still wrinkled
on his floor
then I felt around a while
for where I left my heart
in this cold and rainy
unfamiliar land
but it was gone
the first of many
casualties to come.

So, this poem from a couple years ago was just published by Streetlight Press!  Glad it finally found a home.

While you work
I have eaten
the skyscraper
and the elevator
of your love is built
to slowly lumber
from my big toe up up
to our penthouse suite
my mouth is full
of scaffolding
the metal tastes
like blood. I
roll my tongue
around it as I wait
to hear you hear you
slowly climbing
each floor chiming
up the hungry distance
of my legs.

While empty subway cars
run all night long
we are eight million
lonely transistor radios
sending sad sound-waves
to the starred stratosphere
            above twinkling Hell’s Gate
            above grim Empire State
            above bruised Chinatown
            above our green Lady’s crown
souls break hard
broadcasting anguished
insomnia in the
City that Never Sleeps
our frequencies jam out
vying for validation
harmonize wise
pick stale fights
pledge future fucks
each alone together
swan singing our
static-interrupted lives
over strained airwaves
from the precious dusk
to the diseased dawn
of yet another day.


**Thrilled this poem was published by Headline Poetry & Press in April 10, 2020  ***

Once Upon A Time
there was a narrative
she clung to like
a branch above
a dragon in a moat
it wasn’t comfortable
but it was safe
this branch, this story
she’d been told, been sold,
been fed like broth
that found its way inside
the marrow of her bones
then one day curiosity
let slip her grip
she splashed into her moat
and wrapped her legs
around the dragon’s neck
who carried her to see
when they returned
she threw the castle
drawbridge out with
shouts and cut it’s chains
now lots of dragons
visit all the time
they light her hearths
and coil before them cozy
with their iridescent tails
but sometimes still
when winds blow wrong
straight through her open gate
these stories in her marrow
shake her bones with
once upon a times
but having been to see
she can’t recall the
happily ever after.
 

Strawberry Pancakes
 
Plump ripe strawberry time
bought a big dollar box from
the all-night-fruit-guy
set up by the 7 train
cuz I ached for someone
to make pancakes for.
Sweet treasure carried
juice-stained palms carried
over that dark patch
of raw summer sidewalk
I always mistrusted
torn up by tree roots
deep-buried shadows
so carefully carried
feeling along my dark way
like reaching through
the wicked dawn across
the bedsheet to
an empty space.

*** Strawberry Pancakes appears in the Summer 2020 edition of The Rat's Ass Review! ***

Hot Dad Poem
 
There on the corner -
striking on my sinews
popping sonic like
a fat string rings -
see a sweet hot man
with a baby in a carriage
and a husky on a leash
tattoos, pierced nose
I thrum for him
bones resonating as I
dance on down the street…
Is this the last held note
of my surely dying womb,
or that good good beat ever
pulling me to kind and caring
men?  His smile rests at
my chest like a hymn
and warms me with its
end-of-summer song.

A prisoner
confined in my body
my need
pounds the gate
of your teeth
like only your throat
holds salvation.

“Five more minutes”
became forty five
no wonder
the drugs wore off
my hollow belly
a clothes washer full
of razor blades on rinse
I still don’t want
to leave my bed
cuz Advil’s in Arabia
but it’s warm
down in Belize
Elysium dreams placebos
purring me to burrow
in the sweet soft
Tropic of Comforter
curiously chewing
on my pain.

So on the 33rd day of my cycle I built three terrariums...     

Terrarium Poem

Racing at infertility
I urgently buy plants
research hot obsessing
what survives a black thumb
what won’t kill a black cat
She’s too cute
            to eat with sense
I’m too cute
            to want a child
so I redesign, I nest
blood urgency mistaken
as green life, cat life,
love life fills my womb
and thirteen possible models
of the same exact toilet
I faint from art deco
encaustic cement tiles
while my cranky cycle
defies arithmetic
but if the plant is spiky
and lives in a jar
safe from the black thumb
safe from the black cat
if the plant is spiky
can it draw my lost blood
if the plant’s in a jar
can it clean my dead air
how many plants
how many days
in this black expanse
of dwindling tides and time
my creative grand gestation
is beautiful perfected
space
to be alone.


THRILLED this poem will appear in S/tick's upcoming issue, 4.2  www.dontdiepress.org/stickmag/