I can’t eat sweet potatoes anymore

Without thinking about you.

You and that garage apartment,

Spartan with your art and mattress.

It was a lie

Trapped in the other’s eyes.

Twirling through art museums.

Reveling in the innocence of the strange new girl

Wearing monsters on her skin.


Has she found you yet?

Does she make you sweat apple wine,

And stretch sober nights

Into punch drunk mornings.

Tell me, do you soak in the grandeur

Of the empty mirrored frame;

Acanthus leaves and a porcelain sink.

Have you wondered

At the generations of straightblades

Tipped between the walls.

Or has she moved?

Transfigured the memories back into someone else’s.

Poet’s Note

These works are born of an attempt to balance flash fiction and poetry, and tell a full story pared down in as few words as could be let go. I carved this piece down in a reminder of how brightly the little memories shine when you’re entranced in the freshness of someone new, or the pain of someone gone. Isn’t it crazy, the sharp way everything comes into focus at the beginning and at the end?

He only wanted Hemingway

When his eyes were swollen shut.

Terse words of bullfights,

Wars and women.

People would go around and say:

“He didn’t have a good momma.”

Before he’d learned the difference

Between “I’ll marry you”

And “I’ll marry you tomorrow.”

Poet’s Note

I enjoy these shorter works; it allows enough space to fit a story while still giving room for all those things that can be felt instead of said.

Attention is a funny thing. The sacrifices that you will make to achieve it or the lengths that you can go to avoid it. Seems it can turn on a dime.