Latest Poems
The Runner
Inhale—my feet pound upon the earth I once thought could support me. But it’s not enough.
Cliff Top
I never meant to bring you along to this cliff, but still, here we sit, watching the tide roll in. The sun sets in the vast emptiness, and I wonder if you know this isn’t a detour, rather, the journey. I fretted over this future a while ago; I almost didn’t accept in hopes you wouldn’t know that this is the place it was all going to lead up to. I hope that someday when you look back on it all, you don’t convince yourself I misled you all the way here.
Waiting in the Rain
While I’m waiting, I am distilling neon signs in a drop of rain, nearby the rushing of the world’s many neurons, held by the weight of stillness: the back and forth and back of this daily game of hide-and-seek.
A Missionary’s Lament
Stories from all over the world hold that wayfarers, especially sailors, often got tattoos of swallows. It was, after all, the swooping swallows against the blue sky they would see well before they could see familiar shores. Swallows meant they were home. When I got my first tattoo, I already had a foot in Costa Rica and Georgia. I was coming to terms with the hard truth that having made a home in two countries meant I’d never “come home” without leaving another.
Rain
After the longest dry season, you pour yourself into the cracks in the clay and your overflowing, lasting long after the clouds have passed us by, is the color green. Hope, after so many days wondering when you might arrive, that the days of the hunger season are numbered. That tomorrow I will not ache from sowing in dry ground.
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