I Think We Should Talk About Our Relationship

We don’t like to be realistic when we’re writing poetry,

When we’re writing about


We don’t like to talk bout pain and

We like flowers and marriage vows–

Because they’re almost permanent

For a time.

We like to think poets

Are great and romantic–

Because it’s nicer than calling them


And I think, in general, we don’t like to be realistic

Because our fantasies and our histories tell us that

Love should last forever and

We don’t like admitting that,


Forever is too long for anyone.

Queen the Giant

I knew a mother that was not my own

From stories whispered to my ears,

To my self,

Cuddled in tan arms

In a small bed—

Tales of a mother, a worker,

A “Cook it for yourself.” and

“Suck it up.” sort of tip-top, barmaid lady

Forged in dirt and spit—

Teeth gritted—

Puts a boot in the back of the man

With the bottle in his hand—

Fee, Fi, Fo, Fum,

Here comes my mother’s mum,

Queen of the spankings, Queen of the slums,

Can you see her as I did once,

Upon her wooden, scratchy throne and

Her collared robes?

I feel her in her grave,

Now, still

Restless, bones clacking

To work.

Minolta DSC


You’ve reached the end of the road,

And there is no reward.

There are no golden lights.

Or singing from the heavens as the gates swing open.

No “Oh thank God I made sure to attend church

Every Sunday.


Just you, weary and facing down age,

Looking for acceptance, looking for peace.

Watching tears track down your daughter’s face

(She’s so grown up now) and

Trying to convince yourself

It was enough.


But you wanna hold her hand

Just a little longer and

You don’t want to leave your wife alone

Like this, wrinkled and weak.

Because it wasn’t,


It wasn’t enough.


No idea who made this image but it’s not mine! Featured image: link

Phone Silence

We used to talk—

Whispers at night with

Our secrets and tears stuck on repeat,

Broken records in more ways than one.

Refusing to fix ourselves,

Because the sad was just so


And now we have all these

Words exchanged

As we rebuild our homes,

These stunted talks that don’t

Support or trust or


Can you help us?

When we were broken

We fit together and made

Each other whole.

And now we


Stare at our phones

because we don’t know

What to say.


I’d Rather Not

You want your politically correct,

You want your

Hate, hate, hate—

You want your outrage—

Your dignity, stuck so far out there and

Your right to say

Stomping all over my right

To not listen to you.

You’ve got ideas

Good for you—big ideas

And everyone else’s


Are wrong, to you,

That’s fine.


If you want to live in your

Hate, hate, hate—

Want to bask in your signage

And screams—

Do not condemn those

Who do not.

Do not condemn those

Who wish simply to live

In their time

And be comfortable in their skin—

Those who would rather change the world

From somewhere farther within,

They just don’t have the


For your

Hate, hate, hate.


Featured image is not mine but I don’t know who it belongs to! Image at: link

It Wasn’t Nice Seeing You

Family reunions are

A subtle sort of warfare—

Of strained smiles and

Relations trying to one-up–

“Oh, your little Bobby’s got

Straight A’s?

My Anne’s showing all the signs

Of an art prodigy.”

And so on,

So on.

Gloat and fart and weasel around

Veggie trays and family photos

Smug grins and–

So tragic, really.

Leave with tight hugs and

“Oh it was so nice seeing

You again!”

Get in the car and

Oh, the audacity of the people

We’ve gotten too far away from

To be comfortable with loving.