farewell phyllis

on hearing a patron is ill and will not be returning to the library. 

babies are born
and there is death also,
not one after another
like the plucking of a broad grinn’d
gerber daisy, but huddled
together like passengers on a ferry
there will be times of loss
and then, just as suddenly
Who will keep such a catalogue
of misery and joy, who
will collect the timestamps
of lives like a bookend.
I sat in wonder and forgot
just as suddenly.
There were emails to answer
after all.


Confession Thread

sorry about the random halt post last night in the wee hours.. for those of you on the email list, 1 am is not my prime hour for technology 🙂

Confession Thread

one in the morning:
now, in my smallest form
I come to the doorway
and unravel myself
I put on the dress – the white one
from that last spring,
when we straddled the curtain
of the dressing room
and laughted with our bellies
for the last time
you said it wouldn’t be the last
white dress you bought me
but it was

Quiet the preocupied rustle
of liner and lace, the dress
once lovely dangling from the hanger
is ugly on my limbs
but I know better
it fit once
the zipper is stubborn
the buttons are stiff
but I know better
I know better until I cut my thumbs
the zipper is stubborn
because I’m different now
the dress – the armor of my loss
is a poor silhoette of my body
was made for a younger form
and I wonder, if I would know myself then
If I saw me from across a hall,
with something esle on,
on someone else’s arms
would I know me


Poem 147

for a dear friend struggling with her young-voids, a poem for inspiration, or perhaps just proof that we are all the same.


Maybe for a long while—

a sense of waiting, of bone loss

of time on lines running through our bodies

together rolling on a wild hushed open

I had hopes of closure before…

the long wide brush which cups the desert

and makes us whole. It’s never too soon to ration

our matches. Never too early to siphon our love.

I had known of secret rituals—bringing back the dead

young lies we knew so helplessly wrong,

and yet, some other afterlife

was always better-still


Poem 31 Revised

I never meant to hurt you

When I plucked you from the branch,

When I peeled you with my nails.

A tangerine would have tasted

No sweeter than the luck puckering

Our lips. I never meant to pick you

Prior your prime, but upon my fingers

You felt fresh and who could blame

A novice eye for trying. Don’t trust me

When I tell you I’m sorry, darling,

Now that you finally see how easy

Green-picking can be. Now that you know

How slow the heart-fruit grows.



Poem 31 Original – Poem 31 Edited

Poem 60 Revised

…more substance.
comes across
quite like arms
around an epiphany.
I worry
that sorry
uttered tardy
was never enough.
our ether
etched star-ward
blurred bright through
palm proof of happiness.
less than
a fairytale ending.
I regret nothing—
Only wish there had been…

Poem 1 Revised


I’m not promising
I’ll ever write anything to touch you
But I’m willing to try.
I’m willing to drag my fingers
across these sticky keys and
Come up with something stark…
Something true

I want you to know the truth,
That death is a cruel lover…

That she would have cannibalized you:
That her insides are soot-sour and soiled.
That you put too much stock in everyone
and not enough in yourself.
We: a room full of strangers
Clawing at your memory,
Strangers who didn’t know you well enough
To see when you broke.
When you were broken.
When you took a bullet
Set in motion the truth.

I’m done fighting truth.
As I move through the calendar,
since you fell from this earth,
I’ve found there are only versions, and no

The frame of your face falls
From its perch on occasion
As if from behind the tracing-paper walls
You leap to catch me, to save me
From life’s triviality.

A shadow man with the upmost intentions.
Watchdog wanderer from the other side.
But you gave up your voice, brother.
You handed it to me when you picked up the gun.
Perhaps, it was a fair trade.

All our decisions are bullets.
The real tragedy:
We will survive them.

Poem 60

i’m sorry i never write about you, S, but this is why
…more substance.
I regret
that nothing
comes across
quite like arms
around an epiphany.
I worry
that poetry
cannot capture
these intricacies
of twinkling reality.
Our names
etched starward
smudged out with
the palm of broad
cosmic hands.
put me in a box
in the back of your
closet; wear me on your
shoulders and tell
no one.
This is the less than
fairytale ending we
reinforced with whispers.
I regret nothing–
I only wish there had been…