These poems were previously published in Coffin Bell:
grief, I turn it plum-sized
& swallow
but it blooms in the body
as I sit here
the last time I sit here
studying each azalea petal
from this broken bench
on the front porch
of my childhood home
separating photo, frame
photo, frame
dismantling a life, lives
with these hands
having finally cleared
enough space to see
what looms in the now
loose kitchen drawer
I wedge against my hip
until my insides spill out
like spare cutlery too
which is to say
father, I miss you
***
elegy for the air plant
I swear you inch outward
from the sun—
you who won’t take
my tenderness—
you: a wilt, a wound, a witness
dry as cracked heels in winter
day dragging its coattails
across each cold wood tile
while the steam heat breathes
I find you between
the stove & the wall
the hinge side of the door
wherever I can’t reach—
I am trying to save you
small carcassed thing
having seen too much
I need you to bloom back
into being alive
slivers of light
between window slats
what we’re all trying to grasp
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