Poems

Stretch like a child playing with a rubber band, who’s never felt the snap of it gone too far. Bend like light through crystal, or waves in a magnetic field— just enough to press the edge of physics. Reach through a portal built by a mere mortal, through smoke and mirrors. Offering your hand— and your whole life, too. Peel like a hard-boiled egg, cracking and splintering, delicate but sharp. Lower your shield. Expose your soft underbelly. Reveal the golden, glimmering hope wi

To up and leave for a whispered promise— brushing against unwritten stone. I moan. Just a sound to fill the hollow. I don’t mean to sound so monotone. But I left behind all I’ve ever known. Do I land like a feather, fallen from my flock? Gently, tenderly graciously welcoming. Or like the snap of an alligator’s jaw— No looking back, swallowing every bitter memory marching through the swamp with bruised and scraped knees? At first, there’s excitement in unfamiliarity: a snaring

A bridge person stretches — from one to another, like a circus contortionist, twisting into shapes that look impossible. You wonder, does it hurt? Always building. Always meeting. New lands, new faces. Never quite settling. No one ever stays. And yet — ancient humans slept in warm dirt, in a village that knew them by name and by scent. But after all this traveling, after meddling and molding, we’ve reached the skies. The suspension groans with every gust of wind. Did the ance

I rode the train this morning, squeezed between the yammering conversation of two women and the blur of landscape colors rushing past the window. Their native tongue a key I earned not long ago, my own enigma code. Still, I bob in the dark sea. Then — a silver fish breaks the surface: someone speaking my other tongue. I turn. Not someone I know — but a face shaped by a long lost great-grandmother we may have shared. Two conversations, two rivers flowing beside me. Neither one

On one side, my mouth opens ready to shout On the other, it's shut, biting it's tongue. Torn by desire crushed under obligation how does one find love a superficial angel on one side and a judgemental devil on the other It's a disease I told myself If one side smiles long enough, or the other side folds I can almost blend in. Fitting in, until I had to speak. Then the farce that I was well fell down. One side shouts a guttural moan the other whispers regurgitated data. "W

Everything costs money. And if it doesn’t, it costs time. And if it doesn’t, then it costs blood. And if it doesn’t, then it costs your soul or your children’s souls, or your children’s children’s souls. And who knows if there are any souls left after that. What’s worth the price today or tomorrow, your body or your mind? My back hurts from building this furniture. Then I’m going to paint it a beautiful, dreamy blue not really grey, not totally blue one of those muddy colors

(for my grandmother's diary) You left behind a book of your most precious memories some thoughts you held, written down like this poem, I'm reflecting upon. I flip each page like I’ve uncovered an ancient text at an archaeological dig. These symbols had meaning. What did they want to say? I touch them as if I could feel your hand moving across the paper that I might understand these scribbles in pen. I see my mom. I see me. even my father written in between familiar to me, bu

A clownfish survives in the arms of an anemone: its poison is protection, a ritual of sting and shelter What is it, if not the push and pull of love of an Asian family a bond so deep it suffers inside the sea When my partner says, “Just tell your mom how you feel,” I try. I really try. But the words stick in my throat Stinging me like I’ve swallowed an anemone All that comes out is: “I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.” So I hide the little white pills And the pain with the fears I ma

How much would you ask to be paid for a job where you never sleep —well, barely — and must be ready to entertain, cook (acceptable meals only), rotate laundry twenty-four seven, and keep the office —I mean, the home — clean and tidy? Would you do it for free? For payment in giggles, half-chewed kisses, and just to keep it interesting, the occasional full-body scream in a grocery store, or a tantrum about toast cut the wrong way? You need to be so wide a blanket octopus, stret

The ticking of a clock sounds like small gasps like when a parent sees their child turn around, all dressed, ready for the ball. But what does it feel like the other way around? When a child watches her mother once a goddess, glowing gold grow dusty as time begin to bury her. Photographs capture moments that no longer belong to us, and yet, they're how we remember who we were. The one standing in front of me now is newer, stranger and each memory made fills our lungs with the

Dearest you You got more spots splattered Across your body Were they moles or freckles? You never knew But they’ve been with you Since you first touched the sun They’ve been ridiculed Unwanted Used as connect the dots Tiny Brown spots Were they skin cancer or beauty marks? The canvas they decorate Has also wrinkled With lines from different lifetimes This one you seem pretty satisfied in And your eyes Beautiful swirling coffee cup orbs Have they sat out too long Turned cloudy

Chanel No.5. Waxy lipstick. The clip clop of leather heels. Smell of my mother lingers since I was a little girl As an adult, I know my mother's scent A soft musk That I only get When I go in for a hug deep sighs and closed eyes a shot of hydration in the desert of passing time But as a mother, I see my daughter this radiant ridiculous joy and wonder Could she have been my mother in the faraway countryside smelling of manure mud, long blades of grass a hard days fragrance of

( for Mormor ) I met a wilting flower at autumn’s end. The chill in the air made us wrap our arms around each other not for warmth or comfort, but as a barrier against the arriving winter. I passed by her resting spot today. There was that small hump, the soft curve of a stem a summer well lived a wildflower gone to bed. She laid beneath the sky, petals spread like memories, leaves folded in the shape of a prayer. I imagine she bloomed first in the spring brighter, taller, fe

I'm Fine! What if instead of my mind It was my leg that broke And instead of racing thoughts I just had a hacking cough? Holding my breath Shaking my head Laughing but my eyes swollen shut Now I see it all My svelte body Half moon eyes Toothless smile Through the perilous night Proved that I was still here Now I’m like sequins in the sky Laughter bursts out of my core My belly aches And it jiggles! What if instead of saying “I’m fine” My skin turned, blue, then purple, then g

Some plants wilt if you shift them just an inch. Others thrive even after weeks alone. Some return home to find them thriving still green, wild, loyal He is more a snake plant. I’m more of a peculiar eucalyptus. It’s not my fault. Still, I feel guilty. A sensitive stem. Water me. Whisper sweet nothings. Brush my leaves. Carry me from corner to corner. Just don’t leave me alone drying and crisping. It doesn’t matter. I’ll fade away anyway Love has its seasons Replace me but no

I was in Sweden, craving hash browns from McDonald’s —my favorite. They didn’t have them. No iced lattes. No oat milk. We drove away. And somehow, it made me miss everything I didn’t realize I missed. I miss hash browns from a yellow and red clown. Getting hungry with food already dished, fruit chopped, gas tanks filled. Takeaway from anywhere Tex-Mex, lunch specials, early birds. Fancy flip-flops, chilly sweaters. Every day was a pool day. I miss the weather, chatting about

How do I say my stomach is in knots? How do I say my brain is rotten? How do I say my warm, beating heart, full of insect wings, turned icy cold? How do I say: hold me. Overnight, I grew a shiny black hump. I turned into a beetle. All six feet want to run, like horses with wide eyes. All four eyes want to glance away, like a man caught doing crime. How can I say it? I can’t even say it. Stop throwing apples at me.

Oh forests galore, soft mossy floor I walk with care, then quicken my pace, searching for a pop of yellow ore. It must be a myth, an old wives’ tale. I’ve never seen such beauty. And I remain unchanged. But if I find it, at day’s end tucked between forgotten tree stumps, I’ll emerge from a forest changed, something is different either the world, or me, holding, the golden dream

Some people are made of flower petals, or hard, stony rocks. Some are black holes draining the light from everyone nearby. Some people carry the elements inside: water, wind, earth, metal and me: fire. My mother once brought home a psychic who told her I was too much fire. Said to drape the room in blue with curtains, sheets, my clothes too to cool the heat that lives in me. A little color theory. But there’s a small ember tucked beside my lungs deep flames simmering like the

I like eating dinner for breakfast and breakfast for dinner. I like the smell of rain in the air. I like counting the gulps of water I...