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Your wet chest holds more memories than any skull
- living or dead. I’ve seen your chisel of a sternum, your breastplate of old bricks. Have they served you well? Does the safe house still stand? Paint the white porch ceiling haint blue. Spirits might come knocking. The watch turns to warning - a new eye approaches. I know your safe house stands. There’s no tired wind snake-rattling your chest, no red clay clogging veins. That false train rumble will take us back to your door. All dirt roads and branch waters come home to Bama. ... Published in Cypress: A Literary Journal my mama’s purple leather jacket:
a gift of a gift. dry skin squeaks as faults stick-slip ‘tween creases. memories of a long-gone youth preserved. polishing deep purple with oil (like greasing my scalp before bed). what’s good for skin is good for skin. we crave touch. once the cowhide has been dyed and stitched, no one remembers the innards or teeth. This lining is cool burgundy, and the leather creases perfectly with my face: a gift of a gift. skin of my skin. ... Published in Cypress: A Literary Journal see the tree
light the forest. know her name ~ My face rests inside eyes, but leaves only see their own green-tinted nights. No one makes the way for me: it all leads north. A cataracted sky looks on. Ripe berries burst - broken capillary cheeks in sweet-smelling rivers. ~ a choice waits to be made anew. none are chosen ... Published in Cypress: A Literary Journal listening on the couch
birds sing the unknown hours we are not the same ... Published in dreams walking Brag about the voice
of a woman with her skirt hem in the mud; her hair lags behind. Come here and have a swig of tide for your thirst. I never got my toes wet nor walked far from that grave. The net kept me from another loss. ... Published in dreams walking Who’d want a burnt chest?
Soaked in vodka, an old fire barely keeping itself alive. His shot-out liver might do him in. At first, it rubs him raw, but it’s an always-early clock come December. He needs an ember chest for the ice. ... Published in Rejection Letters ... Review from Taylor Byas "This poem is a shot itself - small, but has enough fire to warm me up. I’m so taken with the voice of this poem, the way it feels like someone at the bar has started telling me about their friend after they’ve had a couple of drinks. There’s a feeling of familiarity here that’s irresistible. And let’s face it; “His shot-out liver might do him in” is absolutely a phrase I can hear emerging from bar chatter. This poem plops me down on that bar stool and orders the shot for me." I breathe in, out the air.
My lungs are smoke screens against the burning grass, the burning bushes. Moses, Moses! Here I am Sun setting, flames flickering, face fogging the window. Silence sat with me while house music played on. Words spun around my head, and fear turned my mouth into its spare room. We’re in a land where tame, wild animals roam near private lodges — reservations only. A winter sky is gray on my June day. I’m seventeen on the seventeenth. It’s almost eight hours later at home. The days are quick, my words are late, the flight is on time. Eighteen hours in the air — I don’t have wings, but I still fly. I’m not free from pressure/cabin pressure/cabin fever when I get home. It’s all heavy. I’ve missed my mother land. They’ll be here. He’ll be here in a month, then I’ll have ten days to try again and fail again and wait again. No burning bushes: only burning skin dripping water we wish we could drown in, out these heat waves. Who am I that I should go to Pharaoh? ... Published in River Mouth Review |
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