A poem about love

If I want to write about love,

I’ll do it in AB positive, universal
receiver. If I want to write
about love, I’ll make it count.


What do I have to say about it?
Love is honesty and saving the last
slice of German chocolate cake.
It’s more than domesticity.
Love is a smoldering pile of leaves.
It’s a notebook filled, written
to the bitter loving end.

Let me define love.
It cannot be defined.

Abstract mathematics is full
of glorious gaps. Love lives there.

Love is a Thursday. Love
is a rogue wave toppling
fishing trawlers and research vessels.

Love is calamity. It’s smelling
the End of Summer and singing
from the back porch.

Love is nothing.
Everything is love.


Jenny to birth. My room

a nursery. The chickens will never

come home to roost

little ladies on walkabout.

Jenny reborn, joyous in her

bleeding heart. Her cries

are smiles. Her smiles

are laughter. Her laugh

is a church bell loud enough

to rock all of Dublin.


Jenny unchanged, her hair

woven gold. She loves me still,

stray dog though I am.


Jenny across an ocean.

Jenny lost and found.


Light it

Matches are for burning bridges
and lighting lanterns for escape.
Fly by night. I am a stone.
I am a shattered kneecap. No

flying for me. What then?
That bridge can burn

even if I’m still on it



Making them shorter doesn’t
make them any easier. The panic

rises heavy handed. Sorrow
so deep my chest aches brings

out memory, the flashes.
Nothing to do but breathe.
Nowhere to go but through.
Medication can only carry me

to my crystalline end. I will

shatter to slate. I will shatter

again to pebbles. My veins

run with ice and glass, my heart

banging on the door to my ribs

screaming to be let loose.
Breathe and release.
My skull is a metaphor.

Grandparents Feathers

My childhood is tied to Dr. Mario
and the ten inch portable tv

stationary in my memory, a gift

from the man I’ve loved best.
There were always gifts

and birthday cakes.
Saviors, the both of them.

Ars Poetica

A poem is a vessel, a vase,
a place to store heartache and
clarity. A poem simply is.
Can it be free from judgment?
A poem is a hot breeze in August.
It’s the end of summer. It’s wanting
to burn the Old World and
replace it with compassion. A poem
is an aneurysm. As much as
I’ve written that, it never gets
easier. It’s mourning your soul mate
except that your soul mate was a dog.
It’s as hard as breathing. It’s a cut
Deep, through flesh on your thigh.
It’s the hesitation. It’s a promise.
It’s the desire to do it again. It’s
a pull. It’s the clatter of dirty
spoons waiting for the fog to clear.
A poem is the Thing a with Feathers.
Thank you, Emily.

Joe’s Sports Bar

Might live in my brain forever,
despite the building being
demolished. As it should have been.
The walks. The pool tables. The men
that wanted to put my tips
down my shirt, the sticky sticky
dance floor. The one middle aged
couple grinding it out every night.
Lemon pepper wings at 10 cents each.
My spare time spent with Louis
and Lestat. 17 and no concern for me.
Concern for Hana, for Kristen, even
when the men were the same.

I want someone who wants
to protect me but knows
I don’t need it.

What if

What if the worst had happened?
My brain still sticky on pavement.
What if my body lay limp
on an ill-used sidewalk?
Place me in parallax.
Bring me to equinox.
But I breathed instead.

Corrugated fear

I can still see the sheet metal
held overhead, charging. One
missed step, a portable guillotine.
Running around the bonfire
at 3am drunk on Everclear
and guilt. Not afraid for himself.
Not afraid for me.
Reckless piece of shit.

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