Can’t Talk Yet

Sometimes, World Poetry Day is missed because of brutal fucking ignorant mental illness lapses. Anxiety and depression. The pneumonia was easier, gang. By a mile.

Listening to confessions from a mother

And songs respecting the struggle of abortion

I cried

At least the baby didn’t die

She said

I smiled for the first time

In miles

She’s been in

The car with



Half of


Many times

Can’t talk about it

Not to someone

Being so nice

To me

An indicator

Of true illness

Doing it again

Misplacing comfort and kindness

Where I want spark

Two lengths of jumper cables

Battery leads corroded


A color I knew

Wearing it in the crowd

Staring the stage

Wanting my own light

Coveting conversation

Forsaken for

Hugs that don’t need feet

Those come from both

Sets of Arms

I’m told

Cemented you chipped me

Not enough to be broken

But enough to be surrounded

By ceramic pieces


Disconnected enough

That every edges finds

Your soles

When you get out of bed

In the morning.

Can you sprain your

Diaphragm crying?

Or is that just


Setting up housekeeping?

Rattling pans

And nailing down


Planning to stay

Until the foundation


Tucked with wool

Set aside from

The destruction

Handed gently


Purpled with


Color of a fresh


Waiting for the

Ease of pain

That comes with

Greens and yellows.

Twitching to a


Melting to a


Stealing comfort

Even though

It’s freely given.

Some things

Can’t talk about.

Not yet.

All I Know

If you could make it hurt,

I can handle that. 

Yell, tell

Bemoan my elective ignorance,

My intentional obtusity

Say I could find my mind

Detect, perfect what’s placed before me

Surmise and surpass if I would 

Not give up before I try. 

If you could not be nice,

That would help. 

The ice of nice is 

Deceiving, retrieving the heat

Buried in the cold

Is a worthy excavation but

Pricks your thumbs

And makes you come

Up with a million reasons

Long after the cold victorious 

To keep digging. 

To keep rigging the ropes

Around your throat

Help for the fall

Still hoping the ground

Never meets you. 

Did I ever meet you?

Did I imagine you?

Mold you from my flesh

From the icicles where my

Ribs were,

Condensed clouds 

For breath. 

I wanted. I waited. 

I loved. 

I love. 

So I cut. 

My heart the pick axe 

My brain the swing. 

Letting me out. 

Letting you in. 

The ridges crusted 

With years of unsalted 



Detritus of the survivor 

Of frostbite. 

Tips and toes still black

Where the tissues surrendered 

But the soul stoked the furnace

Of continue. 

Tell me, yell me. 

I love you. 

Stay alive under my snow. 

I here. 

For now. 

All I know. 

Watching for Embers


Watching for Embers

Starting again.
Old to new.
Broken to patched.
Curled around
to upright.
Blowing out a candle
and transitioning from
wicks and fire
to electric light.

Letting eyes blink in awe
of a power
before unknown
but here
blinding and stark and
driving out shadows.

No going back.
Don’t want to go back.
That way is darkness.
That way is dripped wax
and blistered fingers
and the risk that
any strong gust
can turn illumination
to devastation
to uncontrolled flames.

Going back is
peeling skin
back on the corpse,
sliding and slickness,
evading re-animation.

Too alive to go back.

But looking back,
can’t be stopped,
headstone keep the body buried,
the body unable to rise
but the head can still turn.

Left alone, that ember,
that red memory
can spring to life.
A careful bellow
and guided hollow
and the ash and orange
return to dance.
What the pyre didn’t consume before
it now takes to sate
midnight hunger.

Done on purpose.
With purpose?
Having the courage
to plunge down the snifter
but not the will to seal it,
not able to strangle it
letting the smallest whisper
of air in
to encircle and
keep alive
what could be killed.

But can’t be killed.

The wisp of smoke
kisses life into the lungs.
A center of magic
if the new world
and its promises fail.

Undisturbed, it waits,
the chance to

The ember watches.