self-portrait as your worry stone
unbeliever, what is your north star?
I calibrate the ticking of my pulse to the chime of the earth ringing
like a bell on winter nights. you believe in holy but I believe in haloed
moons that foretell a glaze of new snow. O, the unbearable beauty
of it all. the surprise of a hexagon is enough to bring me to my knees.
my own mother ebbs, confides that when she goes to sleep she wonders
if she will wake in the morning. I know I can't keep her pressed between
the pages of a book like one of spring's first violets. and I, now too an eggless
woman, consider each sequential folding and unfolding of that moon,
set my breath to its sensible division of time and pray: ichi-go, ichi-e.
Acknowledgement: 'unbeliever, what is your north star' first appeared in Emerge Literary Journal:2022, Issue 21, February 13, 2021.
with clouds like this no wonder
Acknowledgement: 'with clouds like this no wonder' first appeared in The Poets' Touchstone (print) Vol. 63 #2 Winter 2021/22
my mother is killing her african violets
my mother molts,
what to expect when your sister is cremated
while you are cleaning out her drawers
how to know a mulberry leaf
place a leaf in the hollow of your hand.
upon reading 1,000 birds fly into skyscrapers
before I sensed
what is a dog, anyway
you ask about my grief —
and so the days become less golden. yielding to the weight of their august fruit, blackberry canes lean acutely angled. the yellow cat’s thirsty bones cry from under the forsythia and the waning moon nods in agreement: soon. but right now there are no vacancies in this carnival of symmetries and divine proportions. there is no room for rain.