You see our love
was just good chemistry
those first date cocktails of
raw pheromones
and evolutionary drive,
despite your ego
we are not divine
just well-dressed test tubes
mixing atoms
and hot molecules
so when our unit split
that pain of fission
was our power bursting free
but I matter
and was not destroyed;
I am stronger and more stable
without you.

This poem was published in Adelaide Lit Magazine, May 2018!

Wrote this poem on Friday morning when I felt fine... then was stomach-sick all weekend. Draw your own conclusions about the power of a poem, my friends, and choose your metaphors with care!  Ooof.

Indigestion
 
When I was young
I ate the world
and felt fine
in the morning
I was happy
with strong teeth
I never flossed
I wore no glasses
unaware of what
I could not see.
Now I wear glasses
and I read the world
it does a number
on my gut
and everything’s
in pain.

Magellan
 
Can’t write with
these old words
in this new land
I am Magellan
got my compass and
some drunk untested math
choking on salt water
charging boldly over
churning warning seas
dark waves curl
like ribbons
through a mermaid’s hair
while I admired her beauty
my words went swimming off
to where they felt more safe
so I stand without them
naked on this beach
there are no church bells here
I move my lips to kiss
and call this kiss a psalm
this is how new language
will begin
and like Magellan
who kept heading out to sea
no longer does my old world
feel like home


Gypsy Dreams
 
Thinking I could hear your drums
crawled out my bedroom window
with a knapsack and a knife
I ran with thirst, I drank too many stars
then passed out with five wolves
beneath a tree, and wondered
if I dressed myself in furs
could I trick you into thinking
I was brave enough to dance
with your wild tribe?

Tumbled head-first
down the slide again,
Police said “Park is closed!”
then there we were
hiding from headlights
middle-aged and kissing
on a jungle gym.
Once upon a time
I dreamt of swings
Tall big-kid swings
at first grade extra-small
when pushed too hard
they jumped a little
at the top of town
but dreams took me
straight over and around
terror giving way to glee
“Oh, that means sex!”
an ex explained some
twenty years ago,
now here I am
quite shameless on
all piers, train platforms,
parks, and poems
still living for
the fastest ride
the highest climb
the hardest swing.

My angels
lounge on rooftops
drinking blood
from beer steins
lazy drunks with
red-stained teeth
trading lewd caresses
with their soft
and dingy wings.
They give me no thought
dancing helplessly
in my red heels
spinning to nausea
throwing myself again against
the unrelenting beat.
Where are their prayers
to lift and fold me
safe into my bed,
where their sweet songs
to quiet the frenzy
of my wanting?
No, my angels carouse,
pass out after dawn
in a useless pile
of feathers and stale sweat.


**Thrilled that this poem has been published in the Winter 2017 issue of The Rat's Ass Review!

Sometimes a poem just appears in front of me.  When I was younger I thought writing these down was cheap cheating.  I mean, I was not the creative one, I didn't come up with this, I was just here when this poem happened of its own accord.  But now I'm pretentious enough to think that life is always one big poem continually being written, and that the poet's gift is sometimes the ability to recognize that and record it. 

Fellow Passenger
 
Handsome’s heavy
wedding band
had slid down
to his knuckle bone
(a marriage can reduce)
His wife, buck-toothed
and pony-tailed
wore her headphones
looked around.
He watched her, tight-lipped
spun his loose ring
with his thumb
then with a silent glance
they dragged their luggage
off my train.

Two Hearts
 
Two Hearts:
he wears his carved into his chest
but bruise after bruise
grew a forest to protect
from further damage,
she wears hers sparkling on her sleeve
carelessly dangling
like the wallet
in the backpack
she never remembers to close.
 
But then his buried
found hers broadcasting,
his pillow lips
found her sharp teeth.
 
And here begins the story
of two hearts.

Your Favorite Song
 
Lovers past a certain age
meet underground
all decked out
for looking good
where lighting’s bad
 
The dj spins regrets all night
the joint is packed
with heartbreaks, loud bass,
and mistakes
this awful crowd
that we feel through
half-blinded for
the want of love
but found and bound
your lips are soft
a children’s choir
sings in hell
but soon drowned out
I ask you what you said
above the brutal noise
I ask again, you brush
against my ear to say
my heartbeat
is your favorite song…
 
I let the masses press me
to the harbor of your chest
and listen
for your own
against the din.

Been shopping this around but no takers yet so I'll post it here while it still has minor relevance... or at any rate before we're blown to nuclear smithereens... or lose our rights to post poems on the internet... UPDATE:  this one was published in S/Tick's Repeat Defenders Issue March 2018!

The Body Politic
 
The night before
the crowning
sweating side to side
my body twisted
and my blood
began to drain.
No advil stopped
the king-size stab that
stole my breath so fast
I doubled over
seized my kitchen sink…
Yes, as his motorcade arrived
my insides ripped
apart two countries
gash so wide
that none could hear
across the break,
broken as my rights will be
my organs, flesh
appraised and sold:
a messy, bloody day.
I’m glad he’ll stain
his body when he tries
to manage mine:
anointed
but my blood
is thicker
than the balm.

A poet overhears a musician and a bartender discuss an unfortunately customized wedding cocktail... UPDATE:  This poem got published in the May 2018 issue of Adelaide Literary Magazine!

Something Blue
 
Cocktails made too bitter
for their special day,
the bride’s mom cries
and cannot speak,
the band
plays songs of love
in minor keys,
loud bridesmaids
laugh and push
the bride to dance…
 
She cannot rest,
her fate sealed
with a small dry kiss,
her garter
and her last name
pulled off by his teeth,
she is something blue
but she is beautiful.
Her guests pretend
to like their drinks
while forcing smiles and
aching to be next.

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.

**This poem is published in Adanna Literary Journal Issue 7, Winter 2017! Yay!