some people light small fires—I, am lit. someday i will be won and not waiting: it is an old refrain, told by older woman; in the still afternoon i watch three sparrows circle my childhood, the greens glowing yellow, and i think— there is something waiting out there, there is something roaring.
we are people waiting in the sunlight, going after stimulus after stimulus after stimulus. we are disenchanted: girls sitting, stitching embroidery into pants— boys making suits from torn-off skins, the flesh still wet and rotting. we are taken from text and retold as myth: a New Generation, all jazzed all pixelated, reliving 2003 like we… Continue reading poem: the kids from yesterday
sitting, now, on the other side and looking back through the blue-green sheen of November in Love, I am unhinged and wet, the wine running deep rosé over my virgin hands, my soiled head. he would come to me out of the rain, out of the dark, shaking mythos from the curling damp parts,… Continue reading poem: last November was seeped through with color
the spring is too flat here; there are no grand peaks in the clouds, no witches asleep over grey moors, their brooms spliced out into moss and heather. these are meant to be the wailing times and yet when I stand outside, I hear nothing. there should be the tromping of boots as my sister… Continue reading poem: girlhood in fantasy
She is two-stepping in an Arizona bar with some old-timer, the walls hung with adobe, tassels, turquoise bracelets for sale and the stereo bleeding out early 90's country-folk. The Indians at the bar are leaning in, stoically awed by the way this city girl already has the West in her eyes. She will not… Continue reading poem: my mother has done everything
When I was younger, I spent some ten or so breathless hours lying on an unmade bed, grey sky clamped above me: I was reading one of my mother's books from college, those years when she went through her pagan stage and believed in abortion and Earth Mothers. The legacy of that is kept on… Continue reading poem: sex ed. from camelot
the girl sat in her english class and watched the sky flatten itself against the university window, like even the clouds are desperate to get in and learn critical theory. she pulls her sweater over her fingers and silently sulkily puts an earbud in so she can listen to japanese indie and feel like a… Continue reading poem: nostalgia, not contrived