Category: Poetry

Rothko

i remember the anguish of space— standing half a step too close to you under the copper light of streetlamps,   with every word and gesture, feeling surprised by how my hands would strain against their own skin to touch … Read More

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Persimmons of another tree: a transfem’s song of love and rejuvenation

“When I say room I mean this space that contains me. / When I say this space that contains me I mean I fill this space. / When I say I fill this space I mean this space is my body.”

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Generation

Stasis in darkness.
Then the substanceless blue—
In the picture I have of you, Melts in the wall.???
The idiot
A cleft in your chin instead of your foot,
your root,

I never could tell where you—
Put your foot—
For the hearing of my heart—
It really goes.

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Creole

“All gone Quinn.”
“Who sir?”
“Shy Anne.”
“You sure?”

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Liberation

“We prepare to reap regrets sown / years ago.”

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Open Letter to Edward CJ

It’s not the perfect photo, this latest of you and me. The light is bad, grainy and too-dark, but the pub was small and mirrored and just what I’d imagined when I’d imagined England. We smile just the same as … Read More

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Portrait of a Stranger

“and the paint’s thin enough / to show silver peaking / and wildflowers that cut / deep into her sides”

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A dream of mending

Our skies sink further into dust and while we wait for cloud-made seams, the earth tears limb from limb, and trusts that we will mend her — so it seems.   As fires rage through forests deep, we find ourselves … Read More

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Edison by Train Window

“Bread lying open face on the lightly dented
plastic, white table, the one you 
always see at bake sales.”

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Someday I’ll Come Back to Peter Taylor

“Remember how lovely / Your dreams once were, filled with sandcastles /
made from stolen buckets on a beach /
Long since nationalized.”

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Anatomy of a sane girl

Let her suck air through her teeth first, anticipating
the beginning of pulling the meat.

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Vigil

“I watch what hovers like genie smoke – the grief –/near ancient tombs of white marble with grey veins,/or gravestones on a desert hill,/images that filter vaguely out of the words we use to mourn./Are you awake?”

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