And if you are to love, Love as the Moon loves; it does not steal the night It only unveils The Beauty of the dark
you're in Hawaii so I drove to your house clicked off the headlights rolled down the windows and bathed in the dry oak and grass winds that normally surround you which made me think of Langston Hughes and Zora Neale Hurston, how for decades they missed each other, each too proud or lost to find themselves back to the other's laughter and company all that longing over language used and I wonder if your life is so full that one less relationship is relief or if this same ragged cloth beating my face and chest wind-whips through the vacuum I've left
Thank you to the editors of Apollo’s Lyre for first publishing this poem.
I keep a sachet of your smells in the corner of my mouth.
brown naked body sprawled beneath the sun scars of ritual and beauty crossing its belly where birds, dogs and people have left tracks soon made invisible by waxing tide
Thank you to the editors of Agape: A Creative Arts Magazine for first publishing this poem.
Religion is a process of turning your skull into a tabernacle,
not of going up to Jerusalem once a year.
you would be my loon calling long past light, my mourning dove, my sweetest finch flashing sun from black as night. If my bird you were I'd feed you nectar from my palm and plant thick trees for you to rest and nest until I could transform my arms and hands to feathered limbs— our hearts remade as song.
Thank you to the editors of The Tishman Review for first publishing this poem.
Anything or anyone that does not bring you alive is too small for you.
David Whyte, The House of Belonging
There is something terribly radical about believing that one’s own experience and images are important enough to speak about, much less to write about and to perform.
Feelings are the language of our soul.