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The original version of this poem appeared in Banango Street

Graveyard Shift 

We don’t know. The enormity
of a moment furrowing cracks
into borrowed vertebrae. Snake
like. As if moving in shadows
absorbs the solidarity of grieving. In
suspension of loving incompleteness.
Our lives, touched. Electronically,
years ago. Aren’t you tired of the
graveyard shift? Time is eating
and we’ve pretended so well that
we’re really well. So, did you win?
There is no proving that when you
look up into the stars that it is in
parallel to children that pin hopes
to stuffed animals. Still. You perch.
Porno magazines at the dentist,
lingering honesty. A terrible joke.


-- Graveyard Shift in Banango Lit

-- Apartment 3C 100 Word Story

-- I'm Sorry in Josephine Quarterly

-- 2 Poems in The Mackinac

-- 3 poems in Brickplight

-- 2 Poems in Public Pool

-- City Music in Driftwood Press

-- I said to my God in Crab Fat Magazine

of want

The original version of this poem appeared in Prick of the Spindle 

I want to talk about 

time. Tearing apart. 


The way geography 

fooled the stove inside 

the living room & listen. 


I want to know how 

I’m supposed to light

in a city captivated by

the midnight thought

puncturing daytime.


Tick, tock masking

distaste of emptiness

inside millions of beds 

bruised with want.


‘Cause I don’t want 

compensation hunger: 

something about someone 



About you or an oil 

mark flowering inside a 

broken refrigerator. 


The teapot is screaming. 

I want spent time with 

tangled limbs. 


Absolving lie after lie. 

Folding grief into beauty. 


The original version of this poem appeared in By&By  poetry

IF this is a test—

Let’s just say.

IF this is a test—

There is a lot

to apologize for.

I am always


The way one

slows and gapes

at car accidents.

Searching, surprised. 

I am drawn toward

men with means 

to mute me.

The way I tried

to breath sorry

between our 

touching tongues. 

Make our bodies

work together against

our ailing minds: sorry.

What I don’t understand 

is how to escape 

this curve of familiar. 

Clawing and grinning 

at the place we

have come to get 

away from. We have 

all had the dream 

where we are moving

backwards in clichés. In 

my version, we don’t 

tightrope love. We 

are too knee-deep in

sorry. We listen for 

sounds that feel true: 

take me,

broken and howl.  

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