Tag: Poetry

  • Suburban Dream

    Suburbia is a nap. Not an early evening nap that fades to night and eases into the next morning, but one of those thirty minute cat naps after which the sleeper jolts awake in a state of confusion and spends the remainder of the slow, technicolor day disoriented like ordering a plate of chicken fingers…

  • Window Thoughts

      Mom stopped smiling last week. I don’t ask why, the tea kettle blows steam. Music from the top of a glass bottle of Coca Cola. Sometimes, I gotta lick my chapped lips before playing the tune. My tongue scrapes the dry spot I bite off with teeth, it bleeds. Once, she asks how school’s…

  • In Memory Of

      It’s that moment of teetering before ground meets head, shards fly, an internal air raid, sirens. Silent seconds before tornado. No looking back to what was hidden in dirt, or painted grass raking jagged nails through hair, eyes closed through breezes, they open. Wide fields of corn and cows eating corn. Was it soybeans?…

  • Afternoon on a Lake

    We wrote poems in cigarette smoke, or sex as it ran down the side of a boat intertwined in water from a dammed-up lake, forced to exist.   Ash singed the pages, humid moonlight that burned our hands until we could not touch. drops hit the glass surface, coerced water rippled.   Debris floated in…

  • Once, I Was Asked Why I Stayed (#1)

    The necklace around my neck hands or curse words slipping   across a Pine-Sol floor I should’ve cleaned better                                     like dishes   slamming against a wall the muzzle chilling my temple an empty freezer expired chipped paint over a patched hole  

  • Childhood, Fragments

    My first memory was my dog dragging a dead rat into my bedroom. Mom walked in I played with my limp toy. Its polished eye watched, she scolded the pup. Showered, I sat on dusty carpet and listened; the owl clock above the sink. Her cracked hands washed green dishes while the metal walls of our trailer trickled…

  • As a Child, Words Hurt Worse Than Being Hit

        I could still walk into that house and smell leather, the sweet odor cracked into peach wall paper that closed in on my body until I vomited fields of soy beans. Outside of the rows, I’d pick wild berries. An almanac cautioned about Indian strawberries– I feared that as the juice dripped down my…

  • A Sunday Drive Through Kansas

      The road was a flat sheet, a Nascar announcer’s voice between waves of static. Corn, shriveled from unseasonable drought, I waved at the oil wells we passed and counted them through the window   crunched with brown grass as I laid in a ditch, among fields of broken glass and found the station wagon,…

  • Despite the Purchase of Venetian Blinds, the Oil Painting Faded

    Curtains tap against the wall like grass, or taking a nap at noon. A fly lingers above this ham and cheese sandwich, uncut– relished by green cavity. Inside the third bedroom to the right, down a sea-foam hall, the bulb in a porcelain lamp fades and burns out.  

  • Curiosity Doesn’t Always Sneak Around Killing Cats

    Curiosity Doesn’t Always Sneak Around Killing Cats   On Friday nights she puts on Ariats, clouds of smoke, clanking shot glasses.   She prefers to recline in a dryer chair, pink lemonade. At the gas station practicing checkers, a pitcher of sun tea. Between lips–   bedsheets hung out to dry through a tiny hole…