We are never real historians, but always near poets, and our emotion is perhaps nothing but an expression of a poetry that was lost.
– Gaston Bachelard
“In Its Distance,” Prime Number Magazine, Issue 131, April-June 2018
They are so like love, hurricanes.
[Reprint] “Where I Don’t Live,” Verse Daily, March 4, 2018
Tiny squares, triangles and hexagons
“In Parentheses,” Literary Mama, November 2014
It’s Saturday and we sit on the floor
piecing together LEGO® houses and flying cars
“What Binds Us,” Cream City Review, Spring/Summer Issue, June 2011
When my grandmother and mother are together they get asked if
they are twins–
my mom has to hear how she’s the younger, uglier one.
“Disconnected,” Strong Verse, July 2010
The answering machine light remains solid,
the empty side of my bed is full
of new pillows. It is almost midnight
“Muse,” Strong Verse, July 2010
It seems the journey has not been easy for you, either.
“Spring Cleaning in Winter,” Strong Verse, July 2010
I help her throw away two-year-old sour cream,
the nearly empty cleaning products, two, three,
no, six bottles under the sink.
“Any Good Reason,” Strong Verse, July 2010
It took all my effort at first
but after time became who I am,
“Where I Don’t Live,” Connotation Press, March 2010
Tiny squares, triangles and hexagons
“Dead Files,” Connotation Press, March 2010
I thumb through boxes, 65, 19, 37,
piece together, organize, reshuffle.
Each file rubs against the other,
“Physicality of Learning,” Connotation Press, March 2010
It comes from hurrying to fill sweet tea for a young couple
feeding sweet-n-low to their toddler through a pixie stick.
“Foundation,” Connotation Press, March 2010
It took all my grandmother’s strength
to open and close her curtains weighted
with polyester and years of Price is Right.
