visiting your house on thanksgiving eve

the first one i cannot call you mine so what is there to be thankful for? your mother’s embrace is more like home to me than a brick-walled house could ever be how she clutched, hair fragranced by dinner– i miss eating at your table how much of holy communion that was. you showed meContinue reading “visiting your house on thanksgiving eve”


blubbering through tears, slimy suffocation coughing up disbelief, pain receptors anesthetized– dead inside your skin there is no feeling here, only static and unlike the panicked cry, the good cry know no names nor colors, all of the fine-tuned details blurred away, swallowed along with phlegm and emotion obliteration i cried so hard, so stormyContinue reading “A GOOD CRY”

It’s what I do at 2:30 in the morning when I can’t sleep

Ponder loss. The weight of its calamity. Loss can render us artists. It is that potent. Loss can incite brilliant poetry, feeding off mania as if it is food. An alien sort of self-empowerment. Loss commands with an iron fist, forcing us to salvage obedience. Loss can feel warm to the touch, realizing more existsContinue reading “It’s what I do at 2:30 in the morning when I can’t sleep”

My last day as a child

is not today. Even after my roots silver, bones melt to wax, birthday candles long since sacrificed for sleep, I will still be dizzy light and altitude, propped upon my father’s shoulders, chasing the cobalt shore, fitting my feet inside his bigger prints. Still a baby-faced stickler for perfection wretched eyesight, hunched over clicking typewriterContinue reading “My last day as a child”