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Don’t let the birds be liars
chirping to me
of fancy, and
Oh, I do love (does anyone
still believe in)
stardust
my mind wandering
in this soft morning moment
treasured for its ease

Because joy helps you to swallow

Each day my resolve weakens
under a burden of years
with one truth to be self-evident
that we did not
think everything through

I sweep fetid memory
under his favourite chair, with
each disappointment
relegated to the pantry
behind the oatmeal

I find myself leaving room
for new, sweeter moments
when I am kinder
and remember smiles

Reflections of suns risen and set
and each child’s eyes
and even the mundane, nameless
sudden joys


like that time
he left his cup of tea
atop the car
and we laughed

Again? (so many Mondays)

Is this Monday again? I wasn’t looking. I wasn’t paying attention. I walked right into it, writing while walking, and sulking while my feet were still moving, and she was above me, in thin air.

I ordered roses for her from the florist. They sent her lilies. How did they know? Were they looking through my window when my face pinched in pain? Did they read my letters and follow my halting steps?

I wish this wasn’t a true story. I wish it was a horror that people read, dog-earing the pages to the ghastly parts they want to show their partners later. I wish it was fiction in the purest sense

At what point did I understand that there was hope? What was elusive, dodging me, and mocking me, is at arm’s length. That is a good deal closer than in my youth, giving up the dreams for thralldom.

Pleasure is fleeting. But it returns, I know it, somewhere around Thursday of the month, a refreshing gust in the middle of swelter.

Alright

When I was a spy I felt special
I knew it was going to be alright
no promises made I was riding high
I had no keepsakes to weigh me down

I knew it was going to be alright
everything set in motion from the start
with a nod to my mother I was on my way

No promises made I was riding high
I was no Mona Lisa I had no plans
whirred together like sweet banana pudding

I had no keepsakes to weigh me down
there was one that tried to take me there
I couldn’t sit still but he could come along

Slaying my dragons

My friend hangs his head, listening to me.
Nightmares? Not again. You write about
Night terrors and bad dreams. Again.

They are part of my life. I am trying to
face them down to battle the dragons.
I miss sleeping fully. I am exhausted.

You are obsessed. You don’t want to banish
your dragons at all. They are far more interesting
than real life ever hopes to be.

I twitch. Get out of my head.
I am in terror every time I close my eyes
knowing that sleep is imminent.

You are a fraud.You love it.
You love having something to talk about.
All poets are egotistical.

The pot calls the kettle what?
I shift positions in my seat.
My legs are restless. I wave at the waitress.

Yes, I am a poet too, but we are not
alike. I am in it for the art. You are
in it for blood. You are in it for the bodily fluids.

Silence. Facial twitch. My eyes dart.
So? Haven’t you ever heard of
sacrifice for art? What made you so smart?

I read one or two of your poems.
I saw your heart. You are a bit of a coward
Yet you jump back into the fray. Every day. 5 a.m.

Sometimes I sleep until 6. I bite my lip.
My hand twitches on the table and I thump
my fingertips and nails in a staccato beat.

I have a pill that might help you.

It’s not a bad thing.

No, not bad.

I thought others might feel less alone.

But what will you do if the nightmares stop?