Trigger 21

L O N E L Y
was written in giant white letters
across the top of a brick building in Providence.
My son said: “I guess he was pretty lonely.”
The day before, he had been asked by a recovery coach
what he thought his triggers were.
He picked loneliness.
He sees it everywhere now.

 

First published in Door Is A Jar Magazine, Spring 2016 issue

 

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Touch Points

Bandaged

We nurse
the unwrapped bandages,
until so worn they wash the dirt,
muddy down the arms, down the legs,
past caring how heavy the weight,
how burst the sore.

Junkie Air

The air is still.
Heavy to walk through,
push through, breathe through.
Fan blades clog with a soft whirring of your death,
always about to come into the room,
always about to blow through.
From the jetty, I blink signals of light
through the night as you sleep.
Last night you slept
in eye light and wave rhythm.

Recovery

On the half sandbar
between beach and village,
there is sea in every direction.
As the tide rises,
one browned, thin-shouldered boy
bolsters his castle with rocks,
pats it down.
His mother watches,
hoping her boy will be the one
to hold the ocean back.

Published in the Spring 2016 issue of r.kv.r.y quarterly literary journal

Chasing Dreams

Is the old matted dog lying on her side,
tangles of white hair around her dew claws,
her breathing a whistle, almost a snore,
her paw by the writing chair,
tucked under the rug on a cold winter’s night,
the only dreamer in this room?

 

first published in Aleola Journal of Poetry and Art, Spring/Summer 2015

Pause

In the layers
between sand and horizon
there are some things you know.
You know stones will turn as the tide ebbs.
You recognize the sound of their turning.
You know another wave will follow.

 

first published in Atomic, first issue on line. 2015.

Risers

We stood, that early spring,
on a fog cushioned beach.
A whisperer’s mist
covered the shuttered cottages
that lined the dunes, their broken stairs
needed repair every year after the storms.
You stood on the sand, broken too.
I carried the hammer and nails
down the dirt path for you
and put them in your hands.
You built a beautiful set of stairs.

 

published in the Aleola Journal, fall issue 2015