Pass It On

A Prose Poem — Your lips are wild bees, your hair, rain, you’re made of shells, you’re made of sinew, you are still glorious. Your hands float over me, tempting, but not touching. You are sleight of hand, you’re a wizard. You tuck petals into me. You’re drunk, you’re a master, you know that…

Blooming Out Loud — I. There, the musk of it enveloped me, heated humid moments clouding me in remembrance. …

**Trigger Warning: Themes of childhood trauma** Pickled pigs’ feet, silverware soaking in scummy water silent, motionless a rancid orange edging all of it. ​ ​ ​​​ ​ ​​​ ​ ​​​There, in a reeking basement motel room full of smoke and desolation. Was this a normal life? Who knows. …

I Am Here — I. I’m stuck on the bathroom floor again, pounding out hours like seconds, plundering them, rescinding them as they slip through my fingers like mercury. There is nothing quite so swift as an hour that passes this way. An hour that passes this way can never be reclaimed. I’m drinking a…

Remembering — *TW: Childhood trauma* I remember the folded pages, the TV guide resting on the table. What did the table look like? I can’t remember. So​ ​​​ ​ ​​​ ​ many things I barely remember, what day it was, what the dusk felt like, how you moved outside my door, silent, …

A Prose Poem on Getting Unblocked — There is a notion that someone is watching me from behind; who is watching me? And meanwhile, a quixotic sky is too high for me to grasp, to escape, it’s bleeding yellow letters so very high, high. What are they saying to me? Why can’t I touch them? My hand…

Roots VIII — It is your roots that astonish me, the places underground that I can’t see. How your shoots press down darkly where worms glide like fish. I can’t see the mystery, the life that is brewing. The knowledge of sunlight coming through pathways of knowing, of knowing that life comes from…

At the Center — My circles, I am circling back and back, back to the place of fire. But I can’t get to it; you must help me. Your cool soft hands once told me stories of the fire, guiding gently, gilded in peonies, scented like gold. How did you know the secrets before anyone…

Poetry — Where did beauty go? I cannot write about silkened blades of flickering grass; it’s all elusive, shimmering way over there in a cloud of heat, miles down the curled lip of highway that I am traveling on. I didn’t make this choice. I try to choose beauty, I do, but…