Today, Still

Our foreheads pull up and in
Like armies in lines
Of pacifistic rage
And empathetic heartbreak
And we are right again

It may sound like revisionist history
But I swear it’s not
When I say that we
Have never
Been wrong 

Today, still
The lines turn to waves
That crash as we attempt to build
Shelters for each other

Yours for me crumbles
Quietly while I do the dishes
And mine for you crumbles
Quietly while you brush your teeth


Shuffling hands

Scrape baking pans

Take out trash

Remove nail polish, waiting,

Bracing the mind of

The body they’re attached to

For a phone call

And the weight of helplessness

In helping the helpless

Feel less


Lemon Wedges

Lemon wedges on 

Sides of plates wait

With fluffy green garnish

On the plain white porcelain

Of chefs’ canvas.

Your eyes 

Are heavy until mine


And we

Have merely met.


Asinine, Asinine
Hidin’, Hidin’
Wakeful in the night and I’m
Hidin’, Hidin’
Look at all the co-lors
Look at all the sha-dows
Feel all the sounds and I’m
Hidin’, Hidin’

Climbing the Stairs in the Dark

I swear, every
Those last three steps,
Climbing and I crawl like a baby up
Lenses or weak footing slows or pauses my
Step up until about the tenth. A panic of unadjusted
The window’s teal beam cannot reach the stairs. I confidently

Nemisis in Room 104

For anyone who has ever felt self-conscious, ever.

A single strand of my long, slightly-curled hair
Is plucked
By a screw on the back of my chair and I
Will hold the security
Of the other hairs in the forefront
Of my thoughts
As long as this chair and I
Are on display.
I’m onto you, Chair.

Where I sit,
I am seen.
Draping my hair over my shoulder,
I realize my tag might be showing.
The latch on my necklace
Could be backwards.
And suddenly
I have absolutely no doubt
That my bra-band
Has lodged its way
Into that ideal, awkward
Back fat emphasis location.
Scoff. Damn you, Chair.

I ease my hand up to
Check my collar.
NO. Wait.
What about my chipping nail polish?
What about that funky burn
On my wrist from the curling iron?
Oh, great. Now my foot itches.
My foot itches?
Err! I swear to God, Chair!

I have fungus.
No, I don’t, actually.
That’s just the chair
Trying to throw me off my game.
Nice try, Chair, but you fail.
I didn’t come here today
To sit without purpose.
I should be paying attention
To those lips moving
In the front of the room.

And so,
I do.
I look and listen.
But only because
Here, in the middle of the room,
I can’t shake the feeling
I am

If it was just me and this chair,
In an empty,
Windowless room,
I wouldn’t be this twitchy,
Mess of a girl. No.

I would stomp both feet,
Heave myself into
A standing position,
Toss the desk aside,
And make this chair
Into a stool!

And I would let my hair fall where it pleases.