I’ve run out of ways to tell you I love you, so I’ll just say this: you are the smell of the fresh mint growing between the porch steps of my grandmother’s backyard you make me feel the jitters of the first warm rain of spring, the first blizzard of December, the first leaf to
Category: Poetry & Prose
Gladioli cut curbside crop lines Compulsion, revulsion, grassy submission Plucking familiarity in silence, stalks of pink Ivy sprig of white tendrils: anxious to please Maiden chasms, I swear I saw a salmon Resentment, anger, your presence soothes me Egotism, formality, stay as sweet as you are Deception, gracious lady, will you dance with me? Amongst
she is nowhere and everywhere all at once, as inescapable as the smell of morning coffee clinging to the fabric of a well-worn sweater, lingering on the laces of dusty, mud-caked boots she seeps into life in fragments and pieces, mirror shards that offer the wrong reflection the branches of trees echo the curve of
it’s a constant flow a passing junction of elbow bends twisting and brushing one another in the crosshatches of their currents fingers laced on a luggage handle or a crumpled paper ticket a meeting place for the in-between, an artery of feet under knees pressed to platforms each wilted passerby peeling away one by one
I tried living near the temperate ocean and learned all the forms waves can take. In December, they roll like gelatinous masses, a deep burgundy hue dipping and receding. I recalled the bluer, warmer times and jagged pebbles left over after those smooth white ones were gathered by rowdy children. Memories of sand embracing our
I am awoken rays of sunlight seep inside I can breathe again morning air is swift like the icicles on trail winter’s gleaming blades the lake is so still it ripples only to touch softly glimmering I envy the pines observing the rest of us evergreen and strong ease comes quietly holding hands on a
late in new hampshire, leah teaches me to swim. “my house is your home—” the light pouring in, the window and its sunbeams: humble, open hand. breakfast pots clatter, curly hair in my omelet, a snort, laugh, and smile. a pale sky belies a hot and heavy sunlight that warms like a song. a pen,
Grandpa, I’m sorry I only visited your home in Libya twice before you left and didn’t come back. The days melted away quicker than gifted chocolate on the sticky fingers of my siblings. I’m sorry for my scarcity of memory when it comes to the details—I don’t remember how you took your coffee, what your
I. Tossing on too-big rubber slippers for a race with my brothers to grab the groceries, thinking, hope I score the biggest bag so they see me being helpful. II. Accepting red envelopes with the practiced grimace that I’ve been told signifies graceful reluctance. Remembering to extend both hands. III. Balancing
Plastic city room for two / stay for the fireworks / up up to you / take the downtown express I go to lie, shoelaces untied by the fresh flowers / eucalyptus young from the plaza tucked a letter, cursive exaggerate / someone else’s name / I toss and think a non-thought / eucalyptus aromatherapy,
They had been there for five days—two weeks after Mr. Price had died—before the cat turned up. Alice found it first, dozing on the porch in a warm pool of sunlight, its tiny gray belly rising up and down. She thought it would be better to leave the thing undisturbed and brought the mail back