PIECE READ AT REVOLVE ON JAN 11, 2026
POEMS READ AT REVOLVE ON JANUARY 3, 2025
FROM “WHAT GROWS FROM WATER CLOUDS?”
Chapbook published by Bagatelle Books for DITG XIII
(Poems written November 2024)
A Handwritten Letter
A blue tethered mouth
With water
Attached to a horse
At midnight
A tale cross-stitched
At noon
The repetition of a sunset
Breathing
After the flood they say
The pupae winter
In cocoons
After the flood they say
An angel mermaid
Gets its tail and halo
After the flood they would say
Trails of hair are in the shape of
Almond hued tears
I will be the envelope
For you to put your
Handwritten letter
There is a passenger pigeon
That will carry it all away
These Clouds
These clouds will rain
One thousand baby’s breath
To litter the paper trees
With homes strewn like tinsel
On hemlocks and oaks
As homes levitate
Hovering and hungry like sea-faring birds
For fish
The perseverance in your blushing knees
The quiver in your stories
Is there a softness
To what you do not understand
These clouds hold our songs
Made from the seeds
Found in the pockets
Of our cheeks
Tendrils of amaranthus
Cradle the half-played and whispered
Into a wispy crevice
Its texture like dandelion
We weep in boots
Laugh in unison
With a Northern Flicker
POEMS READ AT BLACK MOUNTAIN COLLEGE AT THE {Re}HAPPENING 12 (April 20, 2024)
I. Swan Weather (Nov ’12)
The swim sea of swan
Houses made of dandelion roar roar
Sometimes I kiss my brothers with mouth
Sun the open with eye hair
And the swan will whisper
Her beak in my mouth
That the child.
Tell Mr. Crow why dontcha.
Swan says it might rain io moths again.
Better bring nets, mats, pin.
In case it bit. I do bit. Fawn.
Lichens in skin. Lashes mossy.
Sex-hump ghosts in the barn-hay because.
It froze at dawn.
Never seen you swan, but you made me love you.
We are frozen at different poles.
II. The Objects That Die at Midnight (Nov 22)
Why? Bird arms.
Late night wine. Why? A bird’s leg.
Is it Summer? Is it a hot mess?
Is it because. Is it B, like in the color blue?
Or words like bumblebee?
Taxidermy of a unicorn. How many horns?
How many fingers?
While everything else is verdant.
Are you a plant or are you an animal?
Well.
I plant. I grow from soil- don’t you?
How many toes? Wait, you are an animal now too?
Will we learn to say thank you.
Instead. No apologies just soirees.
I’m sorry— I sew the words into your foreskin
Needle and thread
I love you even if we are made of different snake skins.
Different mosses between the crevices.
There are skins I find in my closet,
Sewn tea leaves by careful hands.
They grow grander every year.
Beautiful bear and your.
Sapphire eyes.
The animals grow larger, louder and more incumbent.
III. Do You Hold Your Breath In Sleep? (Nov ’22)
Sleep apnea. Do you hold your breath?
With each fallen gingko leaf?
Golden like the rings we are wishing.
So they say. Some angels say look at my diadem.
No dandelions, no washing.
But still wishing and holding breath.
The pollen hibernating in your body.
Green, gold, then it turns to violet.
I don’t actually want your ring,
your cheap gold, mined from too young fathers.
Hello there baby boy goats.
From faltered dead bodies. Breath.
Are we dead vessels? Or just broken branches?
From a birch tree. Have you ever considered?
The duty of how a tree breathes?
What vessel are you in today?
A tree or a vase?
Is it a small pan?
Where you warm your porridge or popcorn.
Wear it like your salvation.
Or maybe sew my eyes shut
With golden thread
With your clothing machine.
I’ll be a vessel with hydrangeas I hope.
Gold, white and yellow. Tinged with cerulean.
IV. Winter Hung From a Cocoon Husk (Dec ’22)
Some things hang from trees.
Our clothes on branches
So they may dry in the cold sun.
Cocoon husk drying in the dim light.
Hanging like seashell dreams.
Whispering coos like the breaths of conchs
A spiral, a meditation, a paper wind-up toy.
Oh, boy.
Did they tell you about.
Oh, of course they did knot.
Yes, everything is paper.
Perhaps I’ll see you
in a yellow-hued dream
or a winter solstice