Thursday, December 1, 2011

Tuesday, November 29, 2011

excerpt from 'the babysitters' by sylvia plath

The bold gulls dove as if they owned it all.
We picked up sticks of driftwood and beat them off,
Then stepped down the steep beach shelf and into the water.
We kicked and talked. The thick salt kept us up.
I see us floating there yet, inseparable—two cork dolls.
What keyhole have we slipped through, what door has shut?
The shadows of the grasses inched round like hands of a clock,
And from our opposite continents we wave and call.
Everything has happened.

you don't here

in these fields
you don't hear
traffic or the
lights just that
of wind
to be felt after
its gone

Friday, September 23, 2011

swindled our swan songs like elbow room on a flight
i know you didn't care if i made it home that night
swept all my emptiness that just became un-kept
hiding under my pillow, leaving while you slept
hey. i didn't forget this.

Thursday, May 26, 2011


i want to be held by you
by your voice your hands your face lips mouth ears you hear
when i talk not like someone
waiting to speak
i enjoy you
your words,
your taste.
i miss you and it stings.

not writing

i promised you a poem
expecting to pull that slime out of me
like puking on pages
but i can't find the words

Wednesday, May 18, 2011


i remember wanting to do
psychedelic mushrooms with you

i thought it would make us.


another heart I turned blue.
(found it useless to seek) a new me in you
haven't written in ages
here staring at pages
they look back blankly inside their cages
i am chewing the traces
of yesterday's poem, last year's regret,
and formulated phrases, like "now's not the time,"
"your eyes don't match mine,"

content with dispair, and perfectly fine
swallowing it all with wine.


in the morning i felt your fingertips after you left
they told me i could love you
but maybe some other morning
when we had the time.

Friday, May 6, 2011

nothing yet

by now
you patented the smile on my lips,
and maybe even my hips.
A closet full of make-up,
learning colors
downstairs, Grandpa in the darkroom. (while the fan swayed its arms,
your orchid watched.)

Counting backwards, she makes room for us all--
unveils the evening: a scrabble board.
we learn colors
her chest full of scarves.

Careful careful hands held us
enveloped into a charmed dance
of the softest quiet beauty within my Grandmother's hands.