Back To Sensing, Where I Can See Myself

I am tired of words dressed up in suits.
I am tired of being symboled into stick figure and empty coffin.

As if a person needed something to represent.
Sometimes a heartbeat, is just a heartbeat.
Let my hands be just my hands.

(I know, I used only one of the wordle words. Oh well.)


Writing The Same Poem Until I Believe It

I fish stars
from the black holes in between my teeth,
build a seaglass castle
from pieces still sharp.
I will be the one
who sculpts my own hands,
break pinata of a mask
and gorge myself sick.

The stars are baby teeth

A crystalline lullaby, God in a bucket,
played on the stars piano,
archs through the blackened trees.
Fish write the second and third verses,
in dog’s-tail cursive under the pearl surface.
A boat is shining.
A single leaf of paper is singing from the sky.
The fishes, in bewilderment,
lose sight of all their secrets.
They scatter from the broken doors of their mouths
like wild horses.
Three different girls put their ears to the water,
wake up with their heads full of mud.
Waterlillies are not like seashells;
they do not keep safe the vibrations
of this song.


When I was younger, my favorite dream
was to pick a waterlily. They lay across the swaying lake
like bananas sliced on oatmeal, fitting into each other
like locks, teeth. Trash and ghosts of oil
wrapped around their legs like clingy children.

I thought a green circle
would make a perfect pet. Imagined suspending it from the ceiling,
as if my bedroom was a lake, watching it float
like a UFO. I stared into the greengreengreen
like a crystal ball
and wondered what it would taste like.

This is a response to At The Mouth of Birdsong by Barbara Young.

Hanukkah Prayers

My Grandmother sings 

the Hanukkah prayers. 

Her voice is petrified wood 

and waterfall, a tenth flame. 

Barukh atah Adonai. The song is a slinky

of shadowed rooms and singing,

words glinting off the ceiling 

like light off mother-of-pearl.

As we sit down, 

she takes my hand. 



Note: I have three grandmothers. My Jewish grandmother is probably my favorite person in the world.

Summer Pond

The minnows prick
at our toes like soda bubbles.
Our inside out twins
unfold like parachutes around us
across the sparkling surface
of the coiling water, ripples singing
like truth. My brother is an otter,
on his back, upside down,
sub-sandwich-thick water gun
tucked in the crook of his arm.
I float on my back, my hair like a painter’s brush
twisting through the water,
melting into a hallucination
in the summer warmth.