Selected Poems
Read a selection of poems exploring love, grief, memory, and self-discovery from my forthcoming poetry anthology titled Fault Lines. This anthology is centered on the passage of time, the search for identity, and the ways we continue to grow after life's most difficult moments.
I hope you enjoy this glimpse into the collection before its release.
Cereal Aisle
You tell your dad we’re going fishing,
so I drive us to the lake and follow you
as we find a place to cast our lines.
It’s quiet and we’re alone with the sun
against our backs. Our outlines ripple
across the water, bigger than us.
I see your shadow move before I feel
your hand in mine, squeezing hard,
lingering between us like an apology.
You deny yourself to protect yourself
until tenderness becomes the sting
of holding your frozen hands to a fire.
Affection is a trick when you’re forced
to beg for it. A chained-up dog learns
to mistrust the warmth of a bed.
You speak the language of shame
so softly — a wet-eyed first kiss,
a divot left behind in the mattress.
I want you to touch me without hating
yourself, to fall asleep with your spine
curled against the soft give of my belly.
Last night I dreamt that you kissed me
in the cereal aisle at the grocery store
without looking over your shoulder.
Maybe, one day, we’ll plant a garden or
adopt a dog. Maybe we’ll dance in our
living room with all the windows thrown
wide open.
Longing
Your shirt tag is sticking up
against the back of your neck
as we wait in line for coffee.
I tuck it away, fingers ghosting
along the fragile beginnings
of your spine. You turn to me—
flushed, haloed in peach-fuzzed
sunlight—and smile.
Tidepool
Our thin shadows slant
against the pebbly sand.
We flip stones, watch
green-shelled crabs find
new hiding places.
A weathered cross
yields to the wind, bending
skyward from an altar of
wishing rocks.
No one brings flowers
anymore.
You ask me if I believe
in past lives. This one
is wintry beaches and two
jacketed figures clutching
each other’s hands.
When it is time to leave
I collect doves from
the skeleton of a sand dollar
and save them in my pocket
for good luck.
Elephants
We walk home across rippling cement.
I stop to tug the delicate spine
of a buttercup, and hold the veiny petals
to my chin until it glows yellow.
Light slips between our shadows.
You wonder about the color
of your eyelids closed against the sun,
and if we’re the same.
I wonder how elephants remember
graveyards in the dust,
or if a tree will grow inside me
if I swallow the pit of a nectarine.