el fin

Titan silhouettes cast on the wall
Dust mites move with alacrity
at footfalls trembling the ground
The quaking earth takes shallow breaths
Men come, gods depart


St. Therese sent me flowers.
An altar of red roses – I pleaded for white
the first Novena. The second, I begged for red
or white or pink or yellow or black but not
a wedding cake adorned with orange roses.
It was too cruel an action, a brutal honesty.
Why rend my dreams for all to watch?
I picked each petal to a child’s rhyme
Like Tarot cards, the fortune unchanging
with my rising anguish.

Old Town Alexandria Painted in Sepia Tones

I submitted this piece to a “Poetry in Public” contest/effort in February. Received my official ‘no thank you, but please submit again’ bcc email this week. 0 for 2 on acceptances this year. But I’m happy enough to be writing pieces I like enough to let someone scrutinize, so I’ll take that as a win?

Last night, my subconscious drew creases on your face and painted your temples gray.
Today, you asked me to leave you be.
Time will turn you into a masterpiece lost on my uncultured senses.
Each gallery I admire a collection of ersatz art. You – wrought and ornate and gilt.

The politics of flowers

Another late night/ last-minute submission. Couldn’t come up with quite the right closing lines, so I chose ones that made me laugh.

Spring has born a litter of dandelions
half trampled underfoot, yellow carnage
sullying concrete paths.
No daisies dally with the weeds.
They are kept – over there
in a manicured panorama,
taking up their portion of a small lot.
They are not so loud, not as wild and unkempt
as their cousins.
The daisies nod to the wind, polite as usual.
Gallant, even, when the dog comes
to take his morning piss.

the emo-girl glam

Distress stretched over years,
the lip caught but beginning to peel.
When it snaps, will it sling me
forward, backward? Too fast for contrails
a whizzing sound & a flash.

The eleventh hour

Off to sleep when the husband asks, “Hey, did you write your poem today?” I offer to you, dear reader, my thoughts in haiku form on “How to Get Away with Murder”.

A day home sick, TV

Do they get away with it?

Shondaland surprises

multivariable methods

A professor of mine once said that
Old, white men are prone to
transforming statistics into personal memorials.
Oh, but what these legends become.

I wonder if Wald haunts these halls,
slamming doors and stomping up and down
those narrow steps, a proper hissy fit,
when my students ask,
“Why can’t we just use a t-test?”

& I shall name him Victor

He told me, “If we move to St. Andrews
then we can get a dog.” Here, he maintains
he is like a dog, close enough to a dog –
he is shaggy, he is smelly, he brings mud
into the house, shakes his tail when I walk
through the door. Like a dog, but not a dog
I must remind him. One day, that dumb animal
loyalty will fade. He promises he will love me
unconditionally, but we both know how
unnaturally that comes.

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