He set down my cup, showing me coffee trees,/ Corpus Christi costumes, the totora boats/ drying upward to the sky, the salt collectors/ in the Sacred Valley, sand.
You point to the pheasant. She’s sad, too. You’re both sad together.
But all he wants to know, my gorgeous lover of words,/dirt, puddles, and the sky, is why I “broke” his fall at all
Rogers had to sing that very song over and over and over again for the rest of his life at every casino across America. Doomed to experience his own success, forever.
The members of my online poetry workshop gear up to discuss sexual assaults of yore
This is where, in the poem,/I say that I am descended/from these motherfuckers
A Ferret, a Stoat, and a Polecat//go into a bar. Wait, it isn’t that kind/of poem.
She doesn’t know what the snow does/ to her pipes. But you do.
There are as many ways to grow up as there are people, which is what makes these individual coming-of-age stories infinitely interesting and relatable.
i loved my young life once. it thrummed with inner mischief, some transgressions maybe but all tongue, all textures, all translated through that funnel in my head.