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you cannot escape the South.
you may leave it, but it never leaves you.
On top of us all loomed a shadow
veiled 30 years ago, my grandmother says.
Don't you swat at a fly.
Don't you mindlessly shoot that harmless creature to the ground,
And don't you carelessly sweep its soul into the trash.
Spring shoots out of a flock of robins,
even when nobody's looking.
We're just ash and dirt.
Whatever wasn't wished upon a star.
Change is unexpected.
Like the day I was told we were moving to America.
The world is silent in anticipation
the rivers have returned
the water lulls peacefully in wait.
I believe words are awake,
with agency to take on a new life
of their own after our lips give them birth.
I do not see the stars from where I stand
but I know they are there.
We come in droves, frothing at the mouth and baying for blood.
Our enemy invisible, stretched across the world like the taut skin of a drum,
A global shroud signalling the newest apocalypse.
I am an American boy
with a Mexican twin
The night comes with a special kind of softness,
where the music swells and carries itself through the hall
Suddenly—thirty-two nights without seeing a star
Bright shining, good luck, good luck for me.
And the sea has many teeth, far more than I. But if we are one
then I have all the same teeth as the sea, then it has all the same teeth
as I.
In the thousand faceless poems I've read
the moon has never been named a “him.”
Sometimes I like to collapse infinity
into a single point in time I label “now.”
i have come back
to the village i swore i would never see again.
the first missile tears through the skin;
skinning the embers of
a quenched country
I look at you for decades and your words
melt in this subtropical heat.
Air sticks to my skin,
like honey. mosquitos circle my ankles and wrists
Sweet Erin you lay far from me,
In soils toiled by blight and blood.
Your deplorable, horrible, despicable, ignorable.
You reiterate, evaluate, desiccate, and exacerbate.
Can’t you accept the way you look?
Late afternoon.
I never knew a whisper, soft and sweet, could sing
In tranquil lapse.
A poem is when a scattering of swallows suddenly form a perfect v.
A poem is the angle which makes dew on a rose petal look like diamonds.
I believe in
People Places,
A Place for every Person to
On a frosty October morning, I walk to a field
And lie flat on my back in the dewy grass.
The silence can be eerie
Dark, damp and cold
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