When I see a bug crawl across
my peripheral, I take a small piece of
paper, and I softly push its legs under.
What feels like miles to the
bug, I soar paper toward an exit, the nearest
window or door, and
I put the bug down and
watch it crawl.
I imagine the 70s, when road trips' tallied by dots of
dead bugs on the windshield was as common as
Amazon packages on front porches. Now, dead bugs
are a rarity as cross-country pelts are made of dirt and
Guns, the true Americana experience of the 21st century.
Before I let the bug go, I take a digital photo on
my cell phone, a document of the species,
my tourist attraction.
Nov 7, 2023
Nov 7, 2023 at 8:46 PM UTC
I see
freshly picked produce in
even slices atop white plastic stained
by multicolor droplets.
The colors blend like plants under packed ice.
Later, I'm walking,
and I'm reminded of an espresso machine's
buzz. Of my childhood,
family dog cuddling close,
of Warm.
Back in the kitchen, where the produce sits,
there's a dead zebra fly on the snow-lined windowsill.
Not farther, there's a dead basil plant, stuck
in its ***
If I let it free, if I watered the plant, if I, if I, if I...
But it's early spring, I'm reminded.
Under my feet, crocuses bloom.
Jun 4, 2023
Jun 4, 2023 at 11:27 PM UTC
If I pick my scales off and prink, move
mountains to paint my flesh, turn red
lilies the wrong hue, I can
live in a world where I choose the
color
until blue and burgundy spots
form on each windowsill.
Look inside to join them watching
me dance
my large dance.
Oct 21, 2022
Oct 21, 2022 at 9:14 PM UTC
The effluent swam out in front of me
floating with motley leaves
down the street to the sewers.
My clothes slowly
spotted, color slightly darker
than the original,
and I smirked as pools formed in my shoes.
Jan 15, 2022
Jan 15, 2022 at 10:25 PM UTC
As your feet peddled down the hilly street,
I leaned back from the handlebars to feel
your body pressed to me—
skin to skin, morning dew.
I closed my eyes to let laughter guide us.
Ballerinas pirouetted
in the wind, their dance wafting
lime juice & tequila from tendrils of my hair.
We were a pirate crew without a compass,
but we still managed to steal the night.
Jan 15, 2022
Jan 15, 2022 at 10:23 PM UTC
I didn’t know how to explain where I go
until I realized
the feeling is the same
as when I was a child
in the town swimming pool
devouring youth
until the corners of my mouth itched blue,
and shivers took over the goosebumps,
and I only focused on the icy way
my arms stirred in the unheated pool.
That’s where I go—
to the cold.
Jan 15, 2022
Jan 15, 2022 at 10:21 PM UTC
I danced through a sea of pomegranate seeds,
my shoes red and brown
from the muck.
I bathed in it.
I felt like a sapling
sprouting
out from dirt.
Persephone rising from Hades,
a rebirth in the spring.
I then bit an apple
and watched as it browned.
Dec 16, 2021
Dec 16, 2021 at 1:21 PM UTC
Droplets form mid-air
and cool on my
red, blotchy stomach skin.
They echo the ocean,
a whisper of water,
cycling from land to
sea to
land.
Aug 17, 2021
Aug 17, 2021 at 2:29 PM UTC
You ripped my lace *******
and I laughed because
the broken white fabric looked like
a waterfall and your hands looked like
the jagged rocks waiting
below.
Jun 16, 2021
Jun 16, 2021 at 9:08 PM UTC
“How do you deal with a dying friend?”
asked the child to the tree,
who had lived for so many years,
the tall giant much older than he.
“You remember them in the wind,
and in the dirt beneath your feet,
you remember their laughter in the forest,
even if you do not feel complete.
You remember their name
in every person you meet,
you remember them by being strong,
so the goodbye can be bittersweet.
For in life we are who we care for,
both the sickly and the sweet,
so remember those who said goodbye,
and hope that in the next life you’ll meet.”
The tree replied these words to the boy,
hoping he would heed,
for soon the poor boy will realize,
the tree is much wiser than he.
Mar 29, 2021
Mar 29, 2021 at 2:55 PM UTC