Tag: Poetry

under the covers
like children,
gigging.
we could build a fort,
line the insides with pillows
and innocence.
i lost this somewhere.
i tried to find my way back;
i wanted to explain,
to apologize.
but our language is
different now,
our tongues do not
meet as they once did.
yours is dry,
a language of
such bitter fruit.
mine is spliced,
and broken
with a lifetime of apologies
left unheard
and unanswered.
i’m returning,
slowly.
i am under the covers,
gaining innocence
in the fort i’ve built.
like a child
i’m learning a new language,
one that no longer
only apologizes,
one that is
no longer boxed by
worries or shaped
by fears of losing you,
for it is you
who have lost me.

your fingertips
to me
are more than flesh.
they speak
of how we
arrived here;
from shy and
gentle,
to eager animals
with fire
under our nails.
it is no wonder
we still retain hope,
that our fingertips
aren’t calloused and
hardened.
in the early dawn,
we spend hours
tracing each other’s bodies;
single, graceful lines
with delicate fingertips
of fire.

i sat folding petals between

my fingers;

delicate around worn,

gentle through rough.

i asked,

will you remember

me like this?

“this is how i

will remember you!”

you responded,

with fire and nails.

will you remember

me as a lover

who placed lilies in

candlelight?

as a lover who

held their scent for us,

for our desire;

their scent for our craving,

their scent for our lust?

will you remember me

like that?

“this is how i

will remember you!”

you said;

with spit and venom.

i know now

you never had a lily petal for

a tongue.

you are too bitter

to house something so

beautiful in your mouth,

and too angry

to hold something so sacred

in your mind.

this is how i

will remember you.

i am distracted tonight
cars hum as they wind along rt1
the garden houses crickets
a thousand of them
and a dog barks endlessly
i want this
intimacy in the
common place
bodies together
in the ordinary
of life



salty butter
and sweet marmalade

the past is
never as close

a kitchen full of dirty 
dishes

gentle bites
upon necks as

hands find ways
to body

tasting lips
of marmalade

the dirty dishes
can wait

they can wait
until morning

every year
when the seasons change
and the dogwood loses
its flowers
i wonder if it will bloom
again next year.
an ice storm
broke the center branches.
they are so fragile now.
in the heart of it
they reach upwards
bending strangely from the
damage caused.
early in the spring
when it is as bare and
bleak as the world
around it
i sigh and say,
‘maybe i’ll
have to cut it down
this year.’
a few weeks later
the buds form
and the leaves turn
into rich green.
then the blossoms explode
and the center
is covered
hidden from the world.
in this moment i forget
that i ever
considered cutting it
down.


oh where oh where oh where oh where
that is how this poem starts
in my mind.
i asked myself, ‘do you recall
where you left that emotion?’
but i couldn’t.
so i just bought time
trying to wait it out
by asking,
oh where oh where oh where