our eyes chase
remnants of the sun
up skyscrapers, until a single spire
holds all the light that’s left





Shoudda, Woudda, Coudda


Wood, Wind & Water

shoudda turned back at the ten-dollar
outta state parking, but he didn’t say no

to my idea, the day trip,
though, he wore a wide-brimmed hat
and his darkest glasses

parked by the beach, took the walkway
past fishermen bait boxes, yet he coudda said stop

to the sunlight skating on the sea like the smile on my face,
no, his gaze skipped and dropped like a rock

there’s a joint in the path, a place
where silver railings and stiff concrete
give way to weary wood

where i gave way to would

for my beloved was weathered
but, unlike the wind and the water,
i stopped reaching




White Noise

Dad’s sinking in his seat…
Every so often
he catches the edge
of our family chatter,
grabs the end
of my sentence
and hauls himself
into awakeness.
“Sorry?” His eyes flicker open.
“Shh,” I whisper, but his lids close
before the sound enters his ears…
his mouth expels
a kind of static.

I’m watching my family fall asleep, one by one.
How many times have they seen me, a child
curling into slumber on the couch, a girl
falling on the playground,
falling into adulthood,
until I’m the last one up?





I drew a bridge
over the stream
that borders our town.
My sister painted
tall trees that lean
over the water,
but never cross.
My parents bought the paint, the brushes;
my teachers stretched and primed the canvass.
I painted the path;
it took weeks.
When it was finished,
I was so proud
I walked across it
not knowing
it was the kind of bridge
you only crossed once.