The net they caught her in is made of clay White porcelain in liquid curves stands still although she walks within the night (and sometimes day) Exorcist of nightmares, her breath will somehow infuse me in my anxious sleep: a Buddhist dreamcatcher. Her slim hands…

The words that don’t come together Smell like the freshly-baked buns That you can’t eat Because the scale glares back at you; The bread sits in the oven Like the Instagram coquette in the red skimpy boots, Her shiny skin on the golden sand, Captioning…

Burgundy lips and rose petal hips That’s what she liked to say about me Oh what a lovely depiction of who I am If only she knew my lips burned with rage to get their color While my hips flew me into storm after storm…

what you had been who you were gone from me for so long the old you dead forever like you were never here but you were and you are you still are. You are in every corner of moving on like a beast from the…

What if… What if you succeeded? What if they mean it? What if you’re capable? What if you’ll feel better?   Remember the time you tried it anyway and succeeded? Remember the time you trusted and learned? Remember the time you went for it and…

3. The hand of God. Looking for the local beggar on the street corner to hand to him, some leftover food that was wholesome, nourishing and good.   But he was not there! Were could he be   O’ were! What would I now with the…

You want magic where there is none. In humanity, whose spark is only meant to betray. In God, who is not a genie – no matter how many times you rub his belly with your prayers. In psychics and mediums, who tell you everything you’ve…

The roadrunner makes a clicking sound and spreads its wings in warning. It is not my favorite bird, the way it preys on others. What I do love are the hummingbirds buzzing by like determined little helicopters, their wings beating fast through the air. Neighbors…

In between the cracked concrete and the burnt out lights, our feet meet.  Whispered secrets, poetry, notebooks passed between you and me.  Nights spent sitting curbside, drawn together magnetically, fire sparking, chemistry. 

Babies cry In the apartments around mine But I’ve never seen them Only their voices define their existence. I should mind more Because they are loud And they start so early Bundles of high-pitched mastery Infants on vocalization crack Who keep baker’s hours. I wish…