pssssssssssssst. pssssst. hey i heard maybe you wanted to talk. no no its okay im not busy whats up man im sorry to hear it. you need space? wanting words? wanting poems that know what is up? how about even at night in the garden the birds fly. the stars are incapable of grief, and […]

Leave the poem where you found it. It was never yours, and besides, it has a dangerous song. Can you not hear the blade in that soft, serrated edge where you casually scrape your thumb? Listen to the way the light screams when it comes to rest on these bands of black and white. A […]

after Ocean Vuong i    restart                                                  this sen     tence, i edit edit my life     off                                                             these fingers these words they                                                                  ask me how do i do i feel […]

being just a poem & not a body on the operating table, I never expected you to cut me open & tear me to pieces—never thought you would take your scalpel & carve my abdomen up like the last virgin forest & twist my organs into knots in your quest to cure me (I was […]

Today, I wrote a poem. I let a wasp outside. I made a coffee, set out sugar. When the wasp returned, I gave it sugarwater. I invited you in, changed outfits  to make a statement. I made us dinner, made conversation. I suggested a walk. You taught me the words for how sun is filtered by a […]

So, here we are: you, you’re sitting in your highchair, looking all smug. God, you’re so cute that I could just eat you. Right. Here comes the aeroplane? Remember that one? That’s what we’re going to do. See? Mummy’s got the food. Dinner, din dins. Din sure does. You had existed for a handful of […]

stares at its feet/ my poem is an orphan/ is a stray kid that went missing from the science class/ doesn’t have a birth certificate/ residence permit/ didn’t grow around books/ or other kids that looked like it/ my poem hid behind the broad shoulders of prose/ it has no permanent postcode/ sounds like three […]

we are on the beach and my mother is telling me how poetry isn’t practical anymore. that my writing has to be an act of violence, a way to earn in a world that wants to eat me alive. I am sure that she is right this poem, like those before it, is useless: an […]

         1. sit on a clear summer night on the roof of a ford, or an acura, or even a dodge grand caravan. pop open a beer which runs down the sides of the car and puddles into the lush grass. reminisce on how your life overflows the boundaries of summer.          2a. […]