I don’t have to only write love poems. I could type away about the rustic orange changes in t
Earl grey skies swaddle the rooftops like hand-knit mittens. A reluctant rain begins to fall, patt
The sunset shattered slowly. Little particles of coral light radiated across the sooty surface of
we sit in a dark room as clear cords and red strings spiral from your mother’s nostrils. she
This heart is a bloody mass of flesh in my chest that swells, sinks, skips beats and breaks. It cann
In that life, you were a moth – nothing pretty like those lime green luna moths with their tape
after William Carlos Williams’ “Between Walls” That spring, I’d drive fast along the back
choke down your pretext throw a line a wiretap dots and dashes make a ribbon confessions are best
Back then, nestled in the cinnamon fern corner of the backyard, next to our wooden pirate ship with
Rochester Mayor Lovely Warren is declaring a state of emergency in the city to combat the recent upt
for Gram, who I never met. My mother tells me something about you— your favorite color was
i am to trying to remember you and how you looked before you were gold like your wedding ring and i
If I had a platform If I had a stage A microphone, audience and camera Here is what I would say:
As my five needles make their rounds, I watch my skein grow smaller. Click, snap, twist, lock. Heath
the college student simulation runs full steam. campus is bustling, my cardigan buttoned to my thr
bittersweet flavor my dad obsessed over present at Christmas, church potlucks, and political fami
Unlock the door and bid farewell. Don’t lean in. Start your car and look straight ahead. Mo
Between the blue lines of pale wide ruled notebooks, I used to draw arrows (→) at the bottom
Thank you to the sun as it hits the puddles filled with mud on the sides of the street. To the littl
Act I It feels like yesterday we were building civilization. We sat hunched over by the t
This man lives at the back of my head. Tucked under my occipital lobe, he hunches over, too tall
Tell me of the night your mind got ahead of itself. Was it like the head of a racehorse, chopped off
All the things that I know I keep hidden between my large ears and underneath my curly hair, because
*Inspired by the Irish Folk Song “Stick to the Cratur (Poteen)” Would you hear me to say that
I pray for the eyes that have seen a noose hanging in their garage. I pray for the noses wh
O’ for the swirling psychedelic A non-existent curtain call Sacrilege yet still angelic Clai
His tired old eyes comb the far bank searching up, down, for something new. But only familiar sites
i didn’t know living without a closet would feel so… unearthed. as if someone scraped the
sticky fingers swipe sugar syrup onto my sparkly shirt. I scream outrage, your peach fuzz face gli
What were their names? I knew them once. They arrived at the mall diner every afternoon at 4, and
