The original version of this poem appeared in Banango Street
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.
The original version of this poem was published in Prick of the Spindle (8.1)
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
Tick, tock masking
distaste of emptiness
inside millions of beds
bruised with want.
‘Cause I don’t want
something about someone
About you or an oil
mark flowering inside a
The teapot is screaming.
I want spent time with
Absolving lie after lie.
Folding grief into beauty.