This home has been ours for ever, our parents’ generation and the ten before that too. This home

has been loved

A lifelong quest,

a lingering hope,

I yearn

to touch your wistful presence.

Too young to understand,

Too wise to explain.

I think that tree used to be taller,

Pine spindles extended and reaching, reaching

Toward the terrifying expanse of eternity above.

Beneath my head, your chest expands and falls,

It pulls me in and pushes me out—my tide,

So steady; brutal; vast;

The air is thick with something unnamed, 
a hush, a breath, a weight unclaimed. 

Wherever that may be.

And where should I begin?

Now I’m careful when I’m shaving,

when I hold the razor dark,

my hands are always shaking

you cut an apricot

the size of my fist

maybe we are


someone else’s


random person in the street

A pilgrimage of followers, of teenage girl disciples

with dads trailing behind, trickling 

through ticket check barriers, borrowing youth.

Come again, come again-

Orphic spring and lawny glens,

Wink gold light; beams supper bright,

Shine upon my tranquil hermit den…

I had some secrets— dreadful woes! 

You said that, yours? No one else knows. 

Would it be too much to bear,

An eye and throat so sincere

That air would grow burdened by Sound. 

Rusted, familiar glints of silver and gold,

cold metal dances through my fingertips,

resting in the lock with a click.

As Tufts and stubbles arise from their not so ephemeral wat’ry fiefdoms,

Thrush and blackbird alike chant and despair for company of woman or worm

Looking forward at seventeen meant

to grow small and frail and to whimper

Homesickness to me is not always

a particular memory or place or person,

but a debilitating, sneaky sadness

that creeps up on weekday nights.

Light is breaking through the cracks,

the crawling king snake snaps his back,

his hollow heart was painted black 

Lineage:

The wordless world-less dead

outnumber the living.

Grandmother.

Girlhood was the homes we made 

In the bushes at the bottom of the playground, 

where the branches reached out from tangled

masses like welcome, open hands. 

I don’t know if i can, y’know, do this 

I can’t pray that we are star-crossed anymore,  

I think we’re just unlucky. 

Sickening 

Still —  Stasis. 

with constant hope 

i fell in and out of love 

wandering away 

letting go 

like the wind eases off the leaves.

letting go 

like the waves ease off the shore.

To Seven, at first,

It was all just junk.

Nothing but metal

And dead bodies dumped.

Gather pine needles.

Make a nest. Flock

with feathers, strands

of hair, swaths of cloth.

it’s a constricted sensation deep within my chest

I doubt my ability to name it as it settles —

living and breathing and growing

sickening each lung in turn until oxygen feels liquid and I choke. 

The mud is holy. The house is haunted. The stinging nettle loves the blackberry, as much as any plant can and my therapist says I must ask my parents for the money that is owed me.