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Those thunderstorms
swallow with vulnerable intimacy,
dreams that lose our feelings
while lives span and loved rain

You’re for us,
known us.
We watch, quiet,
the heart of ordered storms.

It’s stretched like clockwork,
dark and scary,
wandering waves
flitted wondering.

Don’t prepare hearts
to feel like oceans,
folded into skin and bone.

Small, raw,
easy suns
look in awe.
Guaranteed mysteries
of simple mistakes.

We’ve been the rain,
compared cages,
dreamt images
to make a warmth of
impossible never-light.

We are going, we say.
essential passions of
tiny lights,
the small of a person’s eye
loving up
summer horizons.


I am grateful to have three poems in the current issue of Milk Sugar Magazine. Hope you’ll check it out — there are some other wonderful pieces of work in this issue!

I dreamt of you again,
wondered what it would feel like
to carry two heartbeats
in one body.
I birthed you,
your bright eyes, and
soft dark curls of hair
came quick
and I rocked your tiny being
into the ocean,
feeling vulnerable
and raw, waking
feeling farther away,
still wondering
about the feeling of two heartbeats
in my body.

Evangeline is a rain cloud.
She calculates her humanness
in vulnerable form,
breaks even by
tearing skin and book pages.

She’s a part of us
and we,
forgotten I
by weathering thunderstorms
and torrential waters.

Evangeline knows
how even muddy puddles
reflect back something.
She says who are you
like it’ll mean she’s found.

She’s a gathering tempest
and the calmest days.
She’s grown weary
and long, paled
her desires with necessity.

Evangeline who are you
with the birds flying out
hazardously, against wood grains
and tree tops.
Evangeline of the
raging patterns and straight line horizons.

Annabelle is the blending of colors
from the windows
of cars moving too quickly;
the way greens blend with black
dotted with pink and purple flowers.

She’s the howling of winds
across your ears,
echoing across barren porches,
winding through the songs of leaves.

Annabelle cries with the rains
and gathers them in her skin.
She’s the tenderness of
just barely touching
and lips passing phrases they don’t mean.

She’s washing away with the weather,
she’s renaming herself
with mispronounced syllables.
Annabelle’s endangered;
her kind’s closest to extinction.

Naruko will reshape her body,
with a bend and pull
like strands of silk
drawn soft and firm between fingers,
to break herself as you see fit.

She’ll wash out with storm waves
that come each season,
then float back in
with gentle tides as gales pass over.

Naruko will braid her hair,
dark and thin,
behind her back across the bones,
across her skin
the color of your memories.

She’ll fold her strength
like paper cranes,
carrying herself boldly
and upright, quiet.
She is socialized to be polite,
to smile then look away.

Naruko will see through you.
She’ll wrap you up
with origami wings.

Sacrificing Our Better Handholds

We became our parents over time
and our children in a matter of seconds.
We were going to save them.
From themselves.
From the world.
From each other.
From suffering.
From surviving as a way of living.
We took ourselves too seriously,
then took them too seriously,
resisted their abilities for flight,
their abilities of finding right
arrangements and places.
We offered up our peace of mind,
our judgment,
our capacity to hold,
our own hesitations.
They were saving us.