I’ve been thirsting to talk
for so long all my stories
choke in my throat. I am
speechless; it is not rare.

Speech was never my best
quality. So lend me your
ear, only so I can lean my
lips beside it. Lend me your
pitch because mine is pinched
and numb with in mouth.

Listen to me. I need to know
there is something worth the
weight on tongue. I need to know
there is a purpose to this act.

Faith alone, is not enough.


When I see you

I count
from sixty;

take turns
breathing life
in and out

like the moon
pulls her tides.

I try to hold
air in lungs.

I try to
stop this
involuntary reflex.

The compulsion
to fight or flight.

The urge to
lose myself
in stale memories.

I try to
overlook this
heart I left
soaking in
jars of

It is far
too easy
to reclaim the
fleeting fervor
of yesteryear

quick anticipated
gasps held in chest.

It is best
to release
air from lungs,
count down,



Dragonfly girl

I am the sound of
flapping wings
when no birds
are seen.

I am backdrop,
waiting in alcove
for a cue that has
never come.

I recognize the
vague expression when
I say my name
for the third time
but my ego has been
checked so many times
I can only surrender a
smile of compliance.

Was there ever
a time I wasn’t
easily forgotten?

I am a walk on,
a sideways glance,
a choked confession
moments too late.

Perhaps if I
took the time
to reinvent
myself I would
be able to
leave more

I can’t help
but to beg to
scar this world
in the worse
possible way
just to be


You can tell by the
arch of my back
I can keep afloat
long after the moon
rips her tides.

I am a better
swimmer than
most land
bound creatures.

I am resistant to
regain straight
legged pose.
I could never balance
well on dry land.

I am more elegant
in the surf.

I thought it
was the only way to
feel free until
my waves met your shore.

I did not grip
to your coast
because I thought
I would drown.

I held
on because I
couldn’t bare
to let you go.

At the Poetry Reading

I noticed you
looking at me
across the bar.

We exchanged a smile,
and I lowered my eyes
to your stare.

I have washed your
scent from my body,
yet I still shiver
from the remnants of
your touch.

I allow this.

I wonder who notices.
I wonder if they can
smell the sex in the air;

if the stain of seduction
is as apparent as the
cigarette smoke which
halos overhead.

Could they tell
I wanted to touch
you from across the room?

I know you were nothing
more than a two o’clock
storm that flashed through a
New Mexico afternoon drenching me
for in an uncontrollable downpour
before passing soundlessly over
the horizon.

I know the monsoons
of summer dry fast
as the sun returns
yet during all the,
reading and reciting,
souls poured across stage,
I couldn’t help but
summon the soft of
your skin under my nails.