In your life you will fall.
In your life you will rise.
But in the end you will crawl.

All the day I sit and wait.
For something to come,
for some other phrase.
But that day will never come,
its been long gone.
And I missed it.

I stir one
tablespoon of honey
in with the sarcasm. (Sip
) This is how I hope God’s
cup of poison tastes: pungent,
earthy, and delightfully warm going
down. I smile and
say to you, *I like this. It’s
bitter.

crisp is no longer the word
for 8 am and the weak white sun—
the leaves have run out of green
so their veins fill with
blood instead—

when my body protests from underneath
my sweater (too
thin) i
drive back home to my
heart
h and the vague possibility of
soup

One day, we will live in a little house.
                                 The color of buttermilk.
                      And we will plant a tree in our yard.

           There we will savor summer
               Sipping sugary lemonade
With our pinkies up, pretending we’re British.

                                                               Gram will visit in the fall          
                                                To can peaches and make homemade jam    
                                                         I’ve always had homemade jam        
                                          “You spoiled thing,” you'll say.  I know, I know.
                                          She will fill our tiny kitchen with nectared steam.

There we will shape snowmen with kinked carrot noses
                 Until our noses are nipped.
                   We’ll warm each other up.

                       There we will delight in spring and urge the buds to bloom.
                                        “Grow, little guy,” we will whisper.
                                                       There, the tree will grow


                                                             *And so will we.

I see a boy who is stuck
with cement blocks on his feet
locked up inside his own body and mind
but the key is on the other side

there’s a postman walking by
he sees the boy through a window
he wonders to himself Why is he trapped?
but more than that How can I help?

the postman walks by every day
bringing him bread and something to drink
he doesn’t realize that this boy
is a prisoner of himself

a little girl rides her bike past him each day
she taps on the window and asks
why do you stand here alone?
doesn’t anybody want you?

the boy stares blankly
she gives him a flower
she says Some day you’ll be loved
but you need to get out by yourself

one day the bread and the water stop coming
the little girl has moved away
the familiar squeak of her bicycle has vanished
and the flower is wilting in his hand

he stands by the window
waiting for someone
and the girl’s words ring in his ears
nobody can help you now

he doesn’t move
he only cries
he drinks himself to sleep at night
with cement blocks on his feet

some time has passed
the girl, now a woman and the postman return
and pass the window
to see a tombstone where the boy used to be