Rewrote Rain

Gather into songs,
let the empty in
too close to see,
where bitter definition
and the greyest places
coat our walls.

Tear something,
into light and unfold
the words
like morning light
and skin brushing skin
only in passing.

Sing the hollows
across puddles,
wandering within
the quiet we wish not
for sharing.

Sadness prayers.
We’re broken
and the brightest
wings still hold back
our corners.

Shut ourselves off for grief
for the meanings
within our darker seams.
We rewrite,
back to back
reaching for love.




Open hands with cracked palms
and splinters through our fingers.
The light leaks through,
as though an ocean
moved right past the hollow
space held between head,
and bone.
It’s broken.
There’s no casting,
no setting this into some
standard pattern.
Let it place itself
into the alignment
that feels itself
into position.

New Poems

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!


Can you feel the tenderness?
I want to lay in that space
with gentle folds and quiet tears,
with soft words and whispered voices.

We could span our bodies across the horizon
to watch as night swallows up the sun,
where intimacy is as simple
as breathing.

Let’s not set one another aflame
merely to say we’ve gathered light,
collected stories, and dreamt up
the same imaginings .

Don’t ask me why our eyelashes
keep the dreams folded somewhere inside.
I’ll say I love you
without saying anything at all.

Skin to skin like home,
like open plains stretched open wide
and far, where we catch each other
to climb too high for fear.


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.


I carry you with me,
all these pockets of half-dried petals
and the vacancies that wear from
skin sides, out to bone, back to our lifeblood.

There are all these delicate details
lingering, cross-hatch patterns
of gold against my fingers,

the tiny red coral pressing against flesh,
warm, as if it holds life
when all there is, is silence.

I carry you with me
right before I fall asleep,
feeling accidental, but somehow
always with purpose.

I carry you with me,
my heart opens vast as wet rice fields
and you aren’t there
until it’s flooding with rains, with life.

And then I carry you with me
as we wander into the downpour,
until the waters wash us
wide and far.

The Color of a Daffodil

I don’t give a flying fuck
about the way it spills out,
made up of haphazard
this and thats.
Sometimes I sit too long,
figuring the numbers, the
private hazards considered
a balance between neurosis
and peace of mind.
There’s something random
and messy,
unpredictable beauties.
I still don’t give a flying fuck
about the ways it tucks back in,
the way we reverse
caring and letting go,
never sure which surgical procedure
will be the most satisfying.
There’s a general diving in
that comes real quick,
almost without warning
save for that little glimpse
of something shiny.
It’s a lonely color,
a fine stream of stimulation,
something full of wry humor
and tasteless feelings.
It’s the color of melancholy
and endless wonder,
something universal.