Poems get mixed up with reality
they steal your supper, your boyfriend
who is right here beside you
arm around your shoulders,
sipping another Coors Light
watching Warriors win 
except he left right left in your last poem
slamming the front door after finding out
how could he right next to you right now
if he knew where you were last night
frantic fingers, tangled tongues
I sneak past syllables, stumble
through sentences coiled in 
betrayal at Sam’s Last Stop 
but I was here right here all night last night
wasn’t I?

A white bread child
in a smocked dress
swinging on a cedar swing
pumping patent leather shoes
𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝐴𝑟𝑒 𝑀𝑦 𝑆𝑢𝑛𝑠ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑒
MOTHER makes tuna casserole
with cream of mushroom soup
FATHER tickles her at night, tucks her in
with a soft kiss

Sometimes
minds go mad
fists swing
ears boxed
without
mercy
the room rings
& whirls
lamps shatter
bloody foot-
prints across
worn carpets
sirens door-
bells heavy
knocks
engines rev
& roar
as he is taken
away.

I reach my hand across time
to touch the child.

I listen to her sing
𝘔𝘺 𝘖𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘚𝘶𝘯𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘦
with my one good ear.

(published in Bacopa Literary Review / Writers Alliance of Gainesville )

I envy you mailing a payment
to AT&T without putting
a check in the envelope
I envy you setting a milk carton in
the cupboard next to the coffee cups
leaving the hose on, flooding tomatoes &
radishes beyond repair, forgetting
your dentist appointment
staring blankly at the array of 
apples at your local Safeway
I envy your fitful nights filled
with Lunesta and Seroquel
your Stouffer’s lasagna barely
defrosted, hardly touched
your undyed hair 
your unwashed sweats
can I borrow your grief
just for one moment
the grief of white lilies
& wordless love
please, can I borrow your grief

(second place in the Arizona State 2016 annual contest)

Grief is ditch-digging work
fingernails claw the earth
frantic
digging for the sound 
of a laugh, the taste of a kiss,
the feel of a feather-light touch
in the silt of dawn

I lie back on the raw earth
exhausted
a finger of moon
lightens the night sky
grief splits open 
like a milkweed pod
spilling seeds 
of love

(published in Grey Sparrow Journal)

under perfect voice control
𝑠𝑖𝑡 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑦 ℎ𝑒𝑒𝑙
my dog so desperately wants to please
nestles in my lap when the Warriors lose
fetches countless tennis balls plopping
them at my feet, tongue lolling,
looking up with limpid eyes
and I swear a smile

why is no one else like him
especially my daughter with tats and studs
waltzing out the door wearing
a see-through top over a two inch skirt
my son eating a fifth Oreo
staring straight at me
my husband sprawled on the couch
watching bowling baseball badminton
while crab grass grows another foot
& rats scuttle in the basement
𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑒 𝑀𝑎𝑥 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑒!

(Published in Really System) 

Could I hire someone from Craig’s List
or Central Casting willing to shout
& scream for seven days, tear garments,
rip hair by the roots. Someone willing to sleep
sleep-less at 3 am, watch endless reruns

of Bachelorette, forget to turn off the stove,
pay the rent, wash underwear. Someone
willing to wear flannel pajamas
to Trader Joes for yet another bottle
of Two-Buck Chuck, oblivious

to the checker’s black scowl. Someone
who can exist on stale cheerios
& canned soup, who can watch
trash pile up, the lawn turn yellow,
bats infest the attic.

Could I hire someone,
maybe some professional mourner
from Greece or China or Nepal
offering $68 an hour, plus overtime
for weekends and holidays.

Especially holidays.

yesterday
hand raised & ready
I couldn’t stop who could
she so mouthy and defiant
at only six

today
wooden stick in hand
beating Barbie Ballerina
to the tune of the mercy-
less song learned just
yesterday

she can’t stop
the rhythmic pulse
the insistent call
who could
after what I

Saint Teresa of Jesus
find a thread of sanity
in my soul, pull
it across the abyss
save my child
from me

Who is it this time
Miss Whozie or Mrs. Whatsie
it no longer matters
the point is you have left
taken your military boots
mesh tops
skin-tight jeans
leather jacket &
bullet belt

the point is this time
I no longer care
glad to be rid of
Metallica and Misfits
glad to be rid of
your malleable morality
to set one place, one
fork, one baked potato
(soft & sprouted)
one almost empty
bottle of gin
glad to drag your stuff
to Goodwill &
keep the change
the point is
my quality of mercy is
severely strained
it droppeth as a fire storm
with fanged bats &
shrieking ravens
no twice-blessed blessings
no gentle rain
the point is this time
I claim my pound of flesh

While we played at being adults drinking scotch fumbling sex secrets and lies while we passed and failed algebra European history Hamlet and Macbeth copying off each other’s papers cribbing from the internet texting till two am while we swapped boyfriends girlfriends struggled with pronouns especially “they” wondered if we were cisgender after all while she came to school wearing wool sweaters when it was apple-blossom-warm clothes too loose too big uncool so we ignored her left her alone at lunch with her six saltines and soda water since we had car keys jiggling in pockets drove crazy fast pot under the seat since we stopped to smoke at O’Malley’s Outlook immortal that we were since only glimpses of slashes and scars on her arms on her belly on her breasts since she stayed home on weekends until one day she didn’t come to school rumors of a gun of a knife of a rope a razor

While we blinked and winked not wanting to hold her close to touch her story to swallow her wet-red sea since all we wanted was to wrap ourselves in supersonic sensations but black dots explode our dreams at night since

arrived in the mail
𝑅𝑒𝑐𝑖𝑝𝑒𝑠 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝐷𝑖𝑠𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟 
cornflakes and cabbage
pasta with prunes
roast mother with meatballs
father seared in fennel
I detest prunes and cabbage
father long dead, so it
must be mother tonight
passed out next door
snoring scotch
empty bottles clanging
under the bed, does 
she think I don’t know
and why must it 
be meatballs
what of roast mother
with matzo balls
mashed potatoes
melted mozzarella
perhaps mother 
sautéed in mushrooms
smeared in mayonnaise
scrambled with moose brains
mascerated in the blood
of three blind mice
working my way
through alliterative
choices passing
years considering
how to cook a mother
already marinated
in alcohol
reviewing recipes 
studying possibilities
staying up all night
steadfast, resolute
eyes bleared 
with strain as
she snores scotch
next door and
bottles clang
the toll.