Saturday, February 22, 2014


The train has made me dreamy again.  The constant poetry of land and sky rushing past my windows has opened something in me, unlocked a hatch that had previously been sealed shut.  From my sleeping car vantage I get privileged glimpses of life in America, tiny weathered towns in the middle of starched golden plains, glass-fronted houses built into stark white banks of snow and trees.  I am the wistful girl in the house too close to the tracks for a good night's sleep, silver bullet train speeding by, going anywhere but here.  I am the self-loathing privileged writer peering out the windows at endless herds of cows, wondering how someone can make a life from just standing still, when mine is so perfectly fueled by running.  I am a cow in a golden field, buffeted by the wind, thinking only of whether those clouds look like rain.

Wednesday, January 22, 2014

I can't

I can't
I can't do anything
I can't do anything right
I can't do right
I can't do

but watch me elegantly smoke this cigarette
puff goes in
puff goes out
gray smoke flag
waving above
my head curling
shafts of light
pierced ash
the haze
of dubious

I can't do much
but I can do this
and sometimes that's enough
and sometimes it isn't


I will hide my
success in yours
bending to form
tucked in around
the edges of what
you've done
so everyone will know
I am good
mimicking good
resembles good
flattering replication
copy copy
copy the parent of success
copy the child's fumbling try
I prove nothing of myself
you I prove
I prove you again and again

Saturday, November 2, 2013


They don't like it
when you sleep
on the train
stretched out
across three
seats exactly
wide enough
for a man
from a long day
of traveling

the carriage sways
and forth
and back
and forth
a gentle humming
beneath the compartment
cozy and warm
safe passage across
the broad starlit
lands of the mother
country as she
pleads with you
my dear one
just sleep

Monday, August 26, 2013


I trace my mouth
with a lazy fingertip
thinking about
the press of yours
the warm
the wet
the sex that slipped
between our lips
pulling us ever closer
until I am reminded
of that Anne Sexton
poem about two lovers
gnawing at the barrier
between them
drawing together
in the fight to be
one body
one mind
one mouth forever
kissing itself
telling its own
secrets, together
we are us

Monday, August 12, 2013


It is barely evening, the hush of new darkness spilling in the windows and lightly touching each framed picture on the living room wall, masking the faces into featureless, familiar blobs.  I am in the laundry room, lights off, switching the laundry from washer to dryer, fingers pruny from damp shirts and pants and socks.  Savoring the hidden, enclosed feeling I get from being wedged into this space between two giant, pulsing machines.  I could crouch down right here behind the washer and nobody would find me until I wanted to be found.  I could fall asleep here next to the warm, humming toss of the dryer, cross-legged on the slick, gold and green patterned floor.  I bend my knees and lower myself to the cool linoleum, just trying it out, wanting to stretch this moment into the rest of my life.  From my cache I can hear Theresa enter the living room and switch on the TV.  Used car commercial murmuring in the background.  She doesn’t know where I am and doesn’t seem bothered by it, a small relief in our lifestyle of constant companionship.  I pass nearly an hour in this manner, shoulder leaned into the laundry room’s paneled wall, breathing in the sweet smell of fabric softener as the dryer sucks the dripping wet from our bath towels and my jeans thump, thump, thump inside the tumbling drum.

Friday, August 9, 2013


That waiting space
in your chest
for so long
and yet
electrode wired
switch thrown pulsing
mutate, trans
shift to
copper burning
sun-sparked blazing
body singing
skin cells dancing
fingers coursing
warm mouth longing
solid vibrating joy mass pounding
yes it is
oh yes