magpie's shiny things

Slam

Photo by Trust “Tru” Katsande on Unsplash

Slam

We're supposed to go to the poetry slam,
but no one can find a ride uptown. 

Damien wants to go see this arty foreign film 
that had been released in, like, three markets.
We say, no, what's the point?

Maria comes in and stops next to Damien's brother.
Hi, she says and blushes.
It's not pretty on her.

Damien's brother snorts 
and goes to the kitchen for a beer.

Jason pulls out his phone and 
starts looking for good Chinese food.
Kelly asks, can we get Cuban sandwiches instead?

I'm bored with all this, so I say
We should all just go to the Tastee-Freez.

Stephanie stands in the doorway.
Hints, she says, cost a nickel.
Then she laughs 
and no one knows what she's talking about.

Damien's mom just stands in the kitchen -
holding that big spoon in her left hand.

Originally published in the American Journal of Poetry, July 2021.

Published on The Laundry Line, September 2, 2025.

Lit

Lit

The sun returned this morning.
It lit the dog from within,
yellow rays blowing
out of his rib cage,
throwing light under the edge of the counter.
It polished the kitchen with buttercups and
shattered on the refrigerator door
where the risen Christ figure
flared blue hot with
an orange lemon yellow halo.

When the sun returned this morning,
I swallowed it whole.
It lit me,
streamed honey from my fingertips,
flashing off of the coffee pot
which slammed its lid
on the marmalade glow of the toast.
A grapefruit of uncertain sweetness
flushed coral and,
Guadalupe, bending down
under a thousand radiant sequins,
wondered what had become of Catrina 
and her marigolds.

First published in the American Journal of Poetry, July 2021.

Published in Loose Change, Ghost City Press, 2023.

Published on The Laundry Line, August 26, 2025.

Cloud Bellies

Cloud Bellies

such a violet ritual
some bluer skies
some yellowing cracked sun
above a maddeningly green
never sleeping world

the little sheep baa 
at the fast
arriving rain clouds
with overhanging bellies
	
if you hate being told to breathe
	just stand there quietly
amid the tumbling corn stalks and
hay bales stacked in interlocking patterns

Published on The Laundry Line, August 19, 2025.

Depot

Depot

I have no language but what I learned from shy-bred women
whose whispers seem all at once
rooted in myself
and in a tongue so alien that I can't decipher their warnings.

I have no heritage beyond what I carry in my left hand. 
All of my promise is shackled to the platform railing.
The train carries my mothers away, 
trailing smoke and cinders. 
I wish I could crawl between the rails
to search for clinkers in the gravel
the way my grandmothers did before the trains
all became diesels and their songs
changed away from minor keys.

Published on The Laundry Line August 12, 2025.

smoke season

smoke season

smoke covers us in summer now.

no one can breathe properly.
we don’t panic, exactly,
but there is a
growing foreboding.

by August
the smell is in our houses.
it’s in the sheets at night
in our towels in the morning. 
we begin to taste it in our food:
smoked oatmeal,
grilled milk. 

but the sunsets are brilliant,
even other-worldly. 
they reflect all the colors 
in the fire-driven sky. 
we marvel at them, 
post pictures on Instagram.
tropical paradise sunsets in
our northern world. 

we wait for the rains,
but summer holds on for
another month.
September is dry.
the fires continue to burn.
in the mathematics of
timber and tinder,
smoke is our new constant.

this is our new season for our new climate.
pray that this is not our final season.

Published on The Laundry Line, 5 August, 2025.