“Long Nights”
Some nights are cold mirrors
in dark rooms.
Some nights are slow breaths
beside bonfires.
Some nights I stay awake
starring into the tundra of space
and whisper sweet-nothings into the sky.
I can see my words linger in the galaxy
of midnight prayers, our collective thoughts
steaming the stratosphere like a sliding glass door.
I long to write a poem among the fog,
something small and intemporal
that will be whisked away by future vapors.
I crave the warmth of a steady breathing
into my back as I write, and wonder
how beautiful (and how lonely)
our glitter-bomb cosmos really is.
Some nights are long yawns
into soft pillows.
Some nights are aches waking
long before dawn.
“once,”
i used to wake to the stainless clacking
of metal hammers on a retro clock,
the flexing of fingers in my palms
like a four-handed prayer.
But now, i wake to some annoying
default ringtone on my phone
and the cat purring gently on my chest
ready for his breakfast.
i used to make french presses for two,
arms wrapped around my waist as i yawned
and waited to take the plunge,
pushing the cross plate gently
against the bitter grounds.
But now i make a spot of tea
with a plop of vanilla almondmilk
and watch the sunrise from my open
window as i try to pen some free-verse.
back then, i could not imagine a morning
without the synchronous crunch
of burnt bagels spread heavily with a mix
of blackberry jam and land o’lakes,
But i haven’t even heard a word
from you in two years. i wonder
how you are as i spread vegan butter
on my perfectly browned toast.
“Cripple Creek”
The creek stops short
of Milton, waters never
swam in wind through the hills,
in-between the trees, rushing past
and over the algae slick stones.
Bends twist about the potholed roads
and follow ridgelines back to home.
We’re drawn there, to that creek. Ever-
flowing, eroding hillocks into hamlets
and flood zones. Funeral ground
for lost cats, collecting trash,
wild garden Eden grown thick
with the snag of briar patches.
All ears to the ground,
the defeatist’s path rumbles
and kicks up dust.
Coal-choked lungs stifle
hearty laughs. Made darker, these huckleberry
memories are a touch-sweet
when mixed with a swig
of bitter reality.
My beautiful weeping
Appalachia.
