the one about the envy you once held out
in your hand like bread crumbs or pennies to the
moth on the curve of her shoulder.

or one sketched after the children slept like
a lullaby in the languid pull of hours. the one with
perfect rhyme – the first you'd ever written

for your best friend's birthday
the loss of your family's golden retriever
or when faced with young innocent love. the poem

you tore up but whose memory you
can't shatter. the one they rejected. the
one about laughter. the one in which you

try to understand the world in order to love it -
but fail miserably for our lack of prepositions
and rigid grammar. the one that you wrote

about my mother. the one that you wrote
in a traffic jam. the one that you wrote and
loved so much that you never wrote

a poem again. write them a poem about your
coffee cup. write them a poem about postage
stamps. write them a poem about the

bird bath your grandmother watched and left
that now sits in your backyard. to show that
you know that when they say “world”

they mean you. your daughter's brief youth in
the corner. your car in the driveway. the swing set
in the back yard. every time you made love with

your spouse in that bathroom. in that bedroom. with
those sheets. to show that you know that when they say
“crisis” they mean the cupboards that hold the

ingredients for tomorrow night's lasagna. the sink that
drips in the kitchen. your cat in the window. the birds
that are bathing. the last envelope that you will ever send in.


published in "Broadside," 2009 - A publication of the lovely Flint, Michigan

grandma had a depression closet full of toilet paper
put to good use on a summer night off a gravel drive.
pink, blue, yellow and white turned
silver to plate elm trees.

earlier that day a young girl shouted insults from
behind white vinyl siding. we stood in her yard under an elm tree in
cut off shorts and bare feet. threatened to open her door with our
teeth. grabbed the front door knob. shook it til the house rattled and
she sobbed.

we came back with toilet paper. tossed it up and watched it fall. watched it
fall and tossed it up. a repeating dance of economy, youth and silent anger.

now to leave this vinyl sided house
of green shutters. of shaking bones and rattling hair
follicles. of screams of tall drivewayed lies from windows.
of wandering little girls who spend saturday morning
cleaning depression closet toilet paper from the front yard.

"of lizards to squirrels"

we don't own these words yet
we repeat them ignoring
the fields spread between
while equating gestures to
declarations and love to
left turn lanes. 

between them cotton picked by
sore hands. forced
migration. dark brown stains. sweat
wiped across forearms. fear. hope.
survival. a mother and a child
with a small pot. a father and a
bag of beans. a low ceiling. a field
of white and green. 

we force them into
subtleties. claim to own. to know.
to translate - exchange rates and
installment plans. warm bodies
to cold sheets. a tree full of
lizards. a tree full of squirrels.



"hands and their possibilities"

i trace tattoos
on your back. elsewhere 

- a man strolls by.  in his fists
pirate ships and cash drawers i 
might not have noticed before you
spoke of the world and my open doors.

- your fingers and your music.

- my hands on your sleeve.

silence pulled back to
fingertips (a path and
some misgivings. hands
and their possibilities). i touch
the sheets. my prints
leave no ink.



"when you roll over"

i see your ships recede as
my sails open to the wind.

i am not in your boat. i have my
own. i did not pull up to incite
mutiny. i left my eye patch
at home.

when we forget the danger of 
these waters we discuss navigation. you
have a fine compass. i show old
maps and astrolabes. you point out
a couple of constellations. i can't see well but
i have excellent hearing.

i pull up the sheets. press my nipples
to your fleet. pull up a
pillow. leave the waves
to the atlantic. the wind to
the morning. one more morning of
you with me. gold or silver.
sugar or coffee.

i have my own flags and 
munitions. royal orders and
star positions. i do not need
your booty, baby,  but, arrr
if you stay a bit longer,
i'll take it.

a door handle might squeak when it has its moment to turn
or in the way the first quick release of kool-aid powder joins an afternoon kitchen.

or how the earth envelops every pet any child has ever buried and
your eyelids protect your eyes without requesting recognition or

pull your vision into an unquestioned prayer of arrival. like this –
the way your mouth opens like a curtain to the lights of an unexpected visitor and

closes like a barn door in the coldest month of winter while
your cows call to their calves and your hay awaits a season - you believe.

you believe .the way love can be a box or a paint can or
a counter and an evening breeze embraces a shutter or a chimney. you believe.

you believe without promises. without lacquer. and i believe.
i believe in the way of glaciers and ice cubes. the way i once had an agenda

then left it in a public restroom - loose pages on the floor scattered in the way
of humanoids and glyphs. i believe.

i believe in the way your evening rustles the paint chips of my side door
into the giggling lap of our fortune. in the way

one body might recycle the solitude of another. or how
greenery might wilt if left inside in the summer and my windows

are closed and my pot uncared for - roots exposed. maybe i believe
in the way of light bulbs or tablecloths. maybe

i believe in the way of dish soap or cardinals. maybe
i don't know. but i believe in the way you believe -

how our feet are common verses sung in rounds and around any fire
sparked from the breath of nothing into warmth

or forgiveness. there's something in all of this believing.
this belief. that stands at the height of the fierce eyes of godzilla or

the raised fist of a statue lost in reference. that stands
in the way of exchanges and fractions

rates and decimal points. that offers a talk over tea as redemption. in the way
each mile between kalamazoo and chicago has been named by an audience of

grasshoppers and squirrels (or has named them). or how love too
lives in the hands of each child who has held a wrench at eye-level

to examine its connection with monkeys. how love too
resides in a mechanic's toolbox in the shape of a photograph

marked by age and gasket rings. how love too
is found in the hands of every carpenter or waitress every cashier or

academic who believes in the way you do – without folding. without mirrors.
in the way of moss on the north side of bark or an invincible army of laughter.


in thecitypoetry. com - if you haven't read this publication yet, get to!

like how a love for hummingbirds
could be the color of eyes. or
my afternoon napping
your profile.

shards of glass shift. each moment
a colored bottle at the bottom of a river.
sand smoothen. hollow. fluvial. each thereafter
a conglomeration of fragments. disjointed. ligated.
released. refracted into a dream.
a memory of what was never there.
a prism of all that is.

like how your footsteps are my tea after supper.
or how the beach settles in your skin. my morning
your head full of magnets. your gestures a
park swing.

or how the cracks in the paint
are my love for you and
my love for you lies next to a tea cup.
silver. smooth. waiting. under a glance.
over the windowsill.
a slip of light. a red reflection.
a flutter of wings. drops of
sweet water on the counter.

to appear in Heavy Bear, issue 2

she'll only eat soft food now.
she cries most of the night & when
she does fall asleep
she wakes up suddenly
blinks away some city dream or
gravel road memory that
i flinch to imagine.

i wonder if she found her at the side
of the road. or worse
if she watched it go down
stayed on until the last breath had drifted
past the ditch toward the pear trees -
the other cat that came up from
brazil with us. an alley cat too wise
to die on a michigan backroad.

i wonder if she'll ever adjust to this
new apartment. every time i leave
she cries at the door.

i wonder if she wants out and if she
goes if she'll ever come back at all.

i wonder if she'd rather leave or
if she worries about me out there
in the new outside in the new city
with all of these new streets.

maybe she's just afraid of
ending up alone. maybe she wants to
go back home. maybe she..s just
sick of dry food
in her teeth.

me, i prefer whipped cream.
strawberries. peanut butter.
hot chocolate and oreos.

she likes the salmon blend. liver.
tuna. isn't much a fan of
turkey or beef.

or a knife like it can do much more cutting
sometimes a toilet brush stares at the ceramic
wondering what it ever did to get there

an overgrown toothbrush
a glorified cotton swab
a pointless never ending crappy dead end job

sometimes a clipper doesn't recognize nails
a towel feels moist
a diaphragm diagonal
a speaker unplugged
a comforter uncomfortable
a cage like a pointy open-toed high heel

sometimes a razor feels dull and useless
or a mirror only looks in at itself

just one sideways glance to confirm a suspicion
just one unused tap to believe its done in
just one more day like one of these
to jump right off the wall
right off the counter
right into a trash can
that feels like a sink
or a floral hat

sometimes a pillow just doesn't feel like resting

sometimes a cat toy just doesn't feel like playing

sometimes a bar of soap just doesn't feel like a bar of soap

but like something softer
more forgiving
something that could sud the love on your skin forever
in smooth kisses of argyle sweaters and figure eights

like the goddess found in every unwrapped package
like the goddess found in every smudge of spackling
like the goddess found in every overused sponge
in every butter knife
in every mixing bowl
or root beer barrel

published at www.empowerment4women.com

everyone else seems older.
cardboard hands extended over
half-grin memory of
face - all that's left after the
sunset rode away like a
divorce lawyer.

but the sunsets child on her
skin. sets imaginary adventure
on her nose. sets a freckle on her
grin that hasn't changed
even that much over the years.
sunset bleaches her teeth
to a level of gold
no coffee pot or marlboro
could even dream of.

and she's younger now. younger
than when we snuck outta grandma's
window to have a beer with the boys
and their for sale sign smiles.
younger than the paper
arms they tried to serve to
her shoulders. the paper arms
that tried to mold her.
fold her.
hold her
back.

in "Words Dance", issue 12

back in a south american
sesame field
machete in hand
pants rolled up
flip flops tied together by wire
don benitez looks up at the sky
and says "looks like war, eh?"

don benitez cried when the twin
towers fell
cried for the thousands
cried for his two countrymen inside

"what i don't get, courtney," he says
"what i just don't get is,
why now the poor people
why do they wanna bomb
people like us?
we cried too."

but faced with a transfer that'd
take him gallons of gas from home
or foreclosure on the mortgage
he got suckered into
right tricked into on the first space

he feels foolish

but he wasn't the only one sitting on
booster seats of cut-out coupons
and rebate checks of confidence to
reach the board on that tall table

he wasn't the only one let out a holler
at that chance card bank error in your
favor get out of jail
free parking

but that house was paid off damnit
buyout used as a down payment
and when there was no work he
even had credit

he fell for it
he knows damnit
all of his cards flipped over
on the table

but he could have more
they said
low rates
they said
he could make money off
the small house
they said
have a yard

he damn well knows
he fell for it damnit and
he doesn't wanna
fuckin talk about it
no more, okay?

so now
he chooses the cannon
points it straight at the yard
to keep the bankers and their
monopoly money away