I visited the Shinto shrine
of your beloved wife
I’d heard that she was lovely,
though I knew her not in life

I brought with me a paper bag
of large needles and yarn
A knitting project she’d begun
before her time was done

“I don’t know what I’m doing here,
I’m not quite sure what’s proper
I don’t have any prayers to pray
or any food to offer

I just wanted to let you know
That I finished your sweater
I found it in the closet
all the way back in September

For months, I taught myself to knit
And while this isn’t perfect,
I thought that you be pleased to know
your project has been finished“

I took my leave and went to work
And when the day was through
I came home and to my surprise
There was a note from you

Your handwriting impeccable
The six words hitting home
The sweater folded neatly there

“She’d love it to be worn.”

Our brains are trained to see patterns in things
Pareidolia
Faces where there are no features
Music where there’s nothing but white noise

I can find the reasoning
in (almost, nearly) anything
Confusing and nonsensical
arranged and tied up with a bow

The lack of continuity in indie films
The perfect mix of casual and chic
The phrase that breaks the parallel
The spice a dish lacks

But I can’t find a drop of sense in
why you’re gone

Originally published in Full House Literary Magazine

I remember
when my brother
had a boat
in a bottle

and we stood
completely frozen
as it smashed
on the tile

We were frightened by
the fragments
that were littering
the floor

But the look
that passed between us
had a hint
of something more

I think we thought
the bottle ship
was filled with
tiny people

and their tiny lives
were shattered like
the glass
along the marble

For a second we
considered that
there could
be survivors

and our search became
more frantic through
the cuts
on our fingers

As we picked up pieces
gingerly
and placed them on
the shelves

we soon began
to doubt that we
could even save
ourselves

Consider the pickle
swimming in brine
still a cucumber
but better

The harshest surroundings
can be so well-rounding
Amazing, the storms we
can weather

Published in WayWords Literary Journal 13

The icy trees that catch the breeze in lazy undulation
The quiet thrum and gentle hum of distant conversation
A hollow thud of glass and mug atop the kitchen table
The whoosh click whirr and bubbling purr of boiling the kettle
A pour, a pause, the steady drips; a fragrant cloud of heat
A scale that dances up in pitch as mug and coffee meet
A gentle melancholy wrapped in wood-stove smoke and plaid
As far as winter mornings go, this one’s not so bad

Published in Blood & Bourbon Issue #13

I went to write a poem about
how furious you make me
but it’s not the kind of anger
you can channel into art

See the thing is that despite my saying
this time it won’t phase me
it took all of thirty seconds for
that notion to depart

The problem is that I don’t even
know if you’re the problem
or if I’m just building pedestals
that loft you out of reach

of the growing expectations that
have built for sixteen months now
and are rooting even further down
the longer that we speak

I guess that I could be upfront
and tell you it’s exhausting
but I’m not sure how to bring it up
in ways you won’t dismiss

so for now I’ll sit here seething
looking in the wrong direction
knowing full well you can’t fix a problem
you don’t know exists

Published in Blood & Bourbon Issue #13

If I’m being honest
which you know I am

none of us expected
you to walk in

dripping from the rain and
drenched to the skin

ripping off your coat and
looking too thin

sitting on a stool and
closing your eyes

having no idea
we were nearby

ordering a drink and
swirling the glass

nodding at the server
when she walked past

listening to chatter
watching the game

bristling when someone
shouted my name

turning just in time to
rid any doubt

staring in despondence
as I walked out

Published in Blood & Bourbon Issue #13

The juxtaposition
of the electric hum
arcing
inside my body
and the
mundane task
of going to
the post office

Almost enough
to make me laugh
but not out loud
and then that adds
to the neurons
firing like
hummingbird flaps
behind my eyes

Would you like
stamps today?
He quietly asks
in monotones
that surely signify
his own lightning storm
beneath the well-rehearsed
script that drives his day
I don’t know what I want
I tell him without
the slightest hint of shyness
and all the candour
I have in me

And when he looks
up
He really looks up

and meets my eyes
and both our lives
are violently whipping
in the wind of a moment
that shatters the daily mundane

And instead of a chuckle
or half-hearted joke
he pauses
and nods
and looks at my letter
and somehow it seems
like he
gets it
You’ll know
by the time
this arrives
Give yourself time
24 hours is all that it takes
and by then
it’ll all
be alright

And somehow
he was right

Slip out of the slipstream
and into quiet bliss
if only for a moment, know
there’s more to life than this

Published in Issue 111 of 34th Parallel Magazine

I’ve never felt my age
never worn the years weary
but one thing I’ve realized
is I can measure my life
in slices of an orange

The first, each slice
meticulously peeled apart
so not a single fragment
of pouch or pith
remains on the juicy flesh

Because in childhood
everything is sweet
and nothing gets in the way of joy
and someone is always there
to peel it just the way you like

As a teenager
the whole thing is cut
juiced and scrapped
craving the sweetness but
lacking the patience

Young adulthood
harbored no oranges
He didn’t like the way they smelled
Bright astringent citrus lingered
out of the control he demanded

And then there’s now
on a lunch break from the grind
each section peeled slowly
chewed whole
and never lasting long enough

I used to only like
the very best
of the orange
But now I take the sweet
with the tough

And silly as it sounds
it’s the first time I’ve ever felt grown
up