Bruised Roses

I loved him already.  Sitting in front of my grandmother’s old house, a new family in the window.  I steal a rose from their front porch.  They were hers—the roses.  They could live there for a hundred years and still the roses would be hers.  And mine.  And his.  I press the rose up to …

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A Poem for America

When do you reject the child?When she is born, her dark hair spiralingFirst cries brimming out into a hazy, too-bright roomOr when she is messy with her mourningIn a body that’s no longer hersCrippled in the hands of someone that she thought she loved. When do you reject the child?When she is knocking at your …

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Strawberry Jam

I wanted him to love me Until he said it Until he took the words and shoved them into syllables that I could count on just one hand. The words The way they sound inside his mouth The way they look inside the air Hovering before his face Their viscous form, blood red Like strawberry …

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A Mother

I am selfish with him—Behind a locked white door in bed we lie, never leavingThe world wants himWhile I am scrambling for time. Split halfway in two when he emergedMy body stitched together, much of me left pooling on a white tiled floorLabor of the body and of loveBlue lips and knotted cord—Is he breathing?I …

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Hourglass.

There’s not much literary inspiration in caring for my grandmother.  There is a lot of sadness—a lot of bittersweet hanging like cobwebs from the ceiling.  A lot of soaking up a final moment, and yet still thinking you’ll have many more to come.  But after a few months, we are now down to our last …

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Glass

After they die, I crack a cold, cheap beer and comb through my belongings.  I look for letters, texts, facebook comments and photographs.  Listen to messages to see if maybe, somewhere along line, they’ve left me the gift of their voice. After they die, I scramble desperately for something left of them.  Something tangible.  Something …

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