when you drink from

the fountain of youth,

you steal it from the children


while you stock up on gold,

they’re drinking only silver

until their throats catch fire

and their brains smolder in ash


you’ve never been a giver

so they asked you to take

the heavy metals


they threw their hopes and dreams

at your feet like pennies in a wishing well


still you only felt the paper in your pocket,

not the beating of your heart








How could she not love you


the way you walk with your shoulders forward,

pushing glaciers north,

carving mountains behind you


the way you melt ice

with the grays of your eyes

and pool that water

in the blues


the way your laugh shakes your cheeks

and the ground beneath you

the way it sings in her heart

and mine










Can you lick your own wounds

if someone else has your tongue?


The white oak breaches the clouds

from a field of tall grass,

its seed, once carried on the wind,

took root with little support

from the elements and peers


it guards its autonomy

with open space

and stays postured

for the valley storms


So why does it take a village

to pump your blood?






Settling In

I am baking in the earth’s crust,

burning out and settling in


The fabric of another life folds

like a patchwork quilt on the table before him

My fingers streak through his hair

and pave new pathways

he can feel, but can’t see


I sip him like hot coffee

in a cold car,

steam fogs the windshield

and I squint to find my place

I can’t see, but I feel him

in the back of my throat

and the pit of my stomach


burning up and settling in





Queen Arlene

I’m watching Lucy bite into a wax apple,

her jaw clenches shut and her eyes bulge

when she realizes it’s stuck

I can almost hear my grandma’s siren laugh

pierce through the cackling audience


I can see her sprawling toothy grin

pinch her cheeks tight beneath bouncing red curls

Her shirt is still caked with flour and

she pecks like a chicken at the scraps on the stove.


She hasn’t had a hot meal since she was a childless nurse

She’s too busy pacing and darting and stirring and sweating

She’s quick to tell her husband to get out of the kitchen

and even quicker to steal the punchline


She doesn’t talk much, but I follow her

around like a curious bee, trying to keep up

with her buzzing spirit


One day I’m watching her wipe the sink

when she asks what kind of cake I want for my birthday

I show her a picture I saw in a Barbie catalog,

the cake hugs Barbie’s tiny frame

in the shape of an elegant ballgown

She tells me she doesn’t know the recipe


Suddenly I’m nine and

she calls me to the kitchen for breakfast

Barbie is centerstage on the counter

with a flowing white gown made

of marbled cake and cream cheese frosting.

Her plastic arms dangle delicately over

a pink ribbon hem and she smiles at me

as if I’m invited to the ball.

My grandma’s face is downturned as she flips the pancakes,

trying to conceal a giddy grin.


If she would look up, she would see my eyes

are no longer fixed on the cake,

but on the nurse who healed an aching heart

with some frosting and a ribbon


I am the princess of a broken home

but she is my homecoming queen












And just like that

I’m back on the switch,

feet dangling over the edge,

the trampoline below

a milky fog beckoning

in hushed tones




the sky always opens in those moments,

its Jericho jaw swallows

the last kiss of regret

on my lips

as it steers me to Jordan


my thoughts of you span

the wings of condors

like black silk cutting through

the mist of that final morning

in Georgia, before


I don’t listen to the valley’s echo

any more than I listen to my own heart









I used to crouch in the dark

as if no one could see the light

trapped in my eyes


if I stayed down

no one would know

who put me there


when I finally saw you

when I really saw you

I realized I didn’t want to

back you into a corner

like she did to me


I wanted to bleed out

in vibrant, sunset red so you could see

how beautiful I could be


I am always scared

I keep pace with mice in cupboards

and blush when the sun steals glances

because I went without it

for so many years


yet here you are

in a room without blinds

and a house without corners









Another bird wearing

a prayer on each feather


Just like a dream,

but here I am in a seedy hotel bed,

another paper cup of bitter brown,

a tear in each pull


I used to lock fingers with the oak

in our front yard.

Today I locked eyes with that chesty hawk

and then with that wine-stained woman

wearing three decades of grief


She gave me six years with her stare

and I held her gaze like the oak

held my hand before I knew

how to hold my own


Now I hold my own

so I can hold hers, too




My eyes swell in a watery fog

imagining mammoths drowning in black tar bogs

Frantic limbs reaching for

the familiarity of home,

the final vision of that place as you sink


Sometimes when I’m sinking

I tilt my chin and discover the color blue

as if I had never seen it before.

As if I had lived my whole life

through tinted lenses and

god herself had broken them before me just now.

A final breath sits in my lungs

waiting for me to release it


When I finally let it go

I am on solid ground again

and I know that vision of home

every mammoth sees just before

its goes limp and accepts that

it was just a feeling,

the one I feel right now

as I go still


That is why I don’t fight anymore

I just let storms chase me

and fill my lungs with tar and

paint the whole world black when I cough


Because when the sky clears,

you can wipe up your mess

with the back of your sleeve,

and you realize you’ve never seen color like this,

not really.




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