I went to an open mic night in a western town;
A blackboard sign read “Cowboy poetry, open to all.”
I was neither a cowboy or a poet, but figured all included me
so in I went.

40 fans complimented broken AC nicely,
and a woman who has seen 3 times the amount of sunrises as me
handed me a mixed drink
as a handlebar mustache-d man stepped up to the mic.

Some punk crept in the back door.
Buckled boots rose to their knees,
and half a can of spray held their hair in a way
birds would be scared to land there.

Suddenly my mixed drink felt like popcorn and
I could almost see a tumbleweed roll by,
as the Wild West duel tune played in my brain.

As the boots-wearing wrangler took the mic,
speaking about some horse, or something,
I watched as my sinister sister put down their phone to listen,
all 18 earrings jingling as they turned their head towards him.  

As the next poet took the stage I kept my eyes trained on
Ol’ Howdy’s hand, making sure the poem titled
”gender: my nonbinary manifesto” didn’t elicit
any gunslinging fast-ones.

But he just kicked back and listened as eyeliner
delivered a powerful and albeit, relatable poem about
the gifted kid to goth dropout pipeline.

The night ended and I was too nervous to
share my own writing and so I recycled my popcorn bucket
and had a foot out the door as I heard a deep southern voice speak—
maybe my entertainment wasn’t yet finished.

“I have never heard something quite like that.”
I unashamedly tuned into their conversation—
“you have a real gift for writing, young— ”
“Friend.”

”Thank you, I could really feel
how much your horse meant to you.
Secretariat thanks you for sharing”

I left the shop that day,
passed the since rained clean outdoor chalkboard
and wondered why I had expected a showdown.

Poetry brings us together,
cowboy hat and fishnet leggings,
and all who love to write.

Peering through lenses, I see myself
legs swung over cliffside mountain shelf.

She holds her hand and I allow a smile,
She who is me, has deserved love for a while.

Choking on rain and the smile filled moon,
They dance over dewdrops and hearts are cocooned.

This is their fantasy hand crafted world,
Books they have written and princess swords twirled.

Two poets in love, a trope unheard,
Run hips under fingers, darlings’ skin lines are blurred.

I love to watch my life through a secondhand source,
A real life fairytale, running its course.

How lucky am I to feel things
So deeply and fully.







That’s it.
                        That’s the poem.

When I was eleven years old
I took a weekend trip to heaven.
It wasn’t like you’d think;
it wasn’t white and fluffy,
there weren’t trumpets and harps of gold
that serenaded our footsteps.
No, it was actually my darkened
neighborhood cul de sac,
the echoes of the yelling of
“ghost in the graveyard”
bounced off the front windows of
the houses that encircled us.

I guess in that sense you could say
that for a fateful night heaven and hell
made up and buried the zero hour hatchet
to form a 3rd, darker and funner location,
one that kids could hide from each other
by laying in the grass, one where spirits
and scraped knees conjoined
to invent new life reincarnate.

I have never heard more worship-filled
sounds than the ringing of my doorbell past 10 PM,
and I have never seen an angel like the
10 year old boy with a bleach-blonde bowl cut
singing to me, “do you want to play night games?”

When my parents were kind that day
or at least asleep I would put on
my best shoes and run into my driveway,
and faced the star-filled colosseum with
6 other middle school boys;
the possibilities seemed limitless.
Those times I wasn’t a girl or a boy
but simply a phantom and a gladiator,
and I knew not of life or death
but only of the games that went on into the night.

We competed in trials and prayed
to not be found, if we were extra lucky
the soldier-bearing adults next door would
make us s’mores like the lords we were,
doting on us as if we were eating our last,
or possibly very first meal.

We always knew we would resurrect again,
and that with the morning came the sunburns
on our faces and the colosseum would
morph into concrete once more.
But until our midnight deathly escapade finally waned,
we rolled in the grass and
held hands and danced as
the heavenly ghosts we were.

I am sure that if you
drew my blood and took a sip
I would taste of carefully spun elixir
of the lives
and bones
and the hot tears
of my friends.

It’s Ella’s birthday party and
if I were to choose
one day to show an alien
One hour even!
To prove humanity’s humanity,
it would be
Ella lighting 20 birthday candles
on a two by two cupcake
Melting
burning and
laughing.

My friends’ voices are
nestled in my vocabulary and
Their warmth is
embedded in my embrace.
When you hug me
The arms of my
Soulmates are cinching
the essence of
Who I am
To your body—

When you hug me,
You are hugging my friends.

Fingers curling in a wave;
Our tendons interwoven
below the skin
resulting in a mutt
bred from the conception
of inside jokes,
And cuddles on my L shaped couch
that is themed like a bed.

To say we are bonded
is a trivialization—
I exist in the skin
of their very being,
and them in mine.

If you listen closely
Two cups on a string
from my mind to my heart
would be vibrating with the timbre
Of their tears
and outbursts
And roaring fits.

Whoever was able to
capture the feeling of Sun
on your skin and transplant her
into my heart
I will worship you,

for when I am hanging out
with my friends
golden light illuminates,
And I can feel the
warmth of the sun
and my friends
in my love-filled bones.