now just two people
who cameo each other’s lives.
Little in common between
the two of us these days.
You are still the artist,
ever drawing the pictures
from the webbing in your mind.
You teach now and sell work on line,
occasionally making a charitable donation
to those victimized by mother nature’s glance.
I am still a writer
and I still scrawl poetry
on bath walls and alley ways.
People have never paid for my verse,
but that never stopped me.
I make my living listening to sad stories
behind the desk of a doctor’s office.
I am simple; I am satisfied.
You didn’t mention her once
in the sixteen hours we spent together,
and I didn’t ask. That is not why we met
at that hotel room, halfway between my
New Mexican sky and your New Orleans night.
We fumbled, despite familiarity
and found ourselves in bed eager for
the intimacy we shared one summer four years ago,
eager for the comfort of a friend.
I awoke not to your terrible dreams,
but to you sitting up in bed,
sketching my still form.
Upon my movements,
you kissed me still and we made love again,
eager in the hours of the morning.
You awoke not to my impatient concern
but to the sound of me writing
and kissed my shoulder blades until I slipped back
to your side.
Our time was small,
secure and entirely necessary.
“Halfway” is previously published in Bombfire Literary Magazine (2021).
I was dreaming about a poem,
illusive to the page,
narrow columns featuring
my fancy script and
Words I am sure I
have written before
but never had the chance
to share. Words I thought
I knew by heart.
You were there too,
but not as much
the you I knew
as a picture I have
stuck in my mind.
You were sitting on the
stairs in the narrow space
between your body and ground.
With each move I took to surpass you,
you lowered yourself more
until you were over me,
and despite the rain,
and the hood over your head,
I knew you and smiled
at clandestine luck.
I kissed you, full mouth,
wondering if anyone would notice
the static spark from my lips
I thought I would remember the poem.
I thought I would be able to write it
upon waking but it slipped away from me
like so many cursed words and key phrases,
like memories I forgot to write down,
like walking passed a possible lover.
“A Poem” is previously published in Spillwords (2022).
“Those who have been told the truth
should not be taken for those
who have been scorned.”
The first time I liked
the sound of my name
it fell from your crooked lips.
yet easily interwoven into
ringlets framing my perception.
You speak each syllable sunshine
mixed with the awkwardness of the moon,
reflecting brilliance no matter the cadence.
For a fleeting moment,
in the melody of the occasion,
I too am fooled.
I see myself birthed from clam shell,
goddess gripping bow and arrow,
my words woven into golden strings.
You tricked me.
It isn’t just your sycophantic words
and slips of tongue.
It is in the way I see my reflection,
the shine of myself mirrored in your clouded eyes,
a strange smile readily returned.
The name you give me,
more beautiful than I can ever be.
“Dulcinea” is previously published in Fevers of the Mind (2021).
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