because of the green
grass, white of the home
uniforms, the sinewed arms
of young men, that there are
nine players and nine
innings, that there’s a diamond
on the field, four square bases
precisely ninety feet from the next,
the way the crowd
falls helplessly, madly in love,
slapping high fives with
people in the seats
above them, below them,
people they don’t know,
never laid eyes on before
that night, ferociously embrace
the ones they came with as if
the world
was everything they believed
it could be, and was, right then;
because a stadium of fifty thousand
souls jump out of their seats,
jump up and down
with a jubilance not often granted
to anyone over the age
of eight, all because
a five-ounce, white ball, thrown
at ninety plus miles an hour smacks into
a wooden bat, takes off
in flight, soars in an arc so majestic,
like a tailing comet into the night—
over, over, over
the center field fence and

Published September, 2019 in Quiddity


Inked into my right foot, it will rise from the sway between
the hallux and pointer, etched into the tender skin bridging those two

most prominent toes. Rather than the hip, forearm or tucked into
the curve of the jawbone, it will reside in a place I can eye on morning’s

first steps, wet and pulsing in the shower, trace it’s pliant outline
in bed at night. I imagine the petals: symmetrically curved skyward,

a pale pink blossom veined with a touch of red, slender green root
winding snakelike down the metatarsal cleft. The needle will be

painful, a self-inflicted suffering, perhaps a karmic mending
of carried samskaras. A lotus planted amidst my noble toes, two-

dimensional flora carved into a breathing canvas, stretched over
a matrix of tendon, bone; my foot, an evolution of thrust and balance,

shaped by a million steps, jeweled now with this image in fluid
scroll, worn for my enduring days, worn into the final fire.

Published Sept 2019 Cathexis Northwest Press


She wakes each
morning to song,
willing to let the rain

christen her
nakedness, to take
a chance that lines

of caravans will arrive,
scrawls of boats
and windmills

will be etched
in her sand.
She isn’t sure

she can bear
the days when birds
don’t light

on her head,
scratch thoughts
onto her page.

From: She Speaks to the Birds at Night While They Sleep
Published in For Women Who Roar


Take the bones
fold them in half.

If it’s below zero
pack them in wool

above 80, in silk.
You must carry them

yourself. At times
theywill weigh

a thousand pounds.
At others, they will lift

like feathers
do the crow.

From: Talk of Snow


In the Fifth Street diner, windows
wide to the guttered slush and pale-bone
sky, the day shift passes like nickels
and dimes–buzzing coffee and sugar,

grilled cheese and slaw, cups of
and sides of, all up and down the formica
counter, out to the smooth-hide
booths, ring the register, pocket a bill

or two in the waisted apron. Click,
clicking across the linoleum:
slinging fries, choco malts and the one
o’clock pie. Wind up the smile,

the hustle, tend the regulars
and occasionals who lunch with chatter
spilling through lettuce and dills,
straw slurp and chomp. Four plate

juggle and sideways slide, order
up, take out and slow clunk
of the clock ’til the last tab’s out
and slam the shutters, clamp the lock,

mop up and count up the take–
jitter, all foot throb and brew
waft, out of the fry, the ogle, into pine
pitch air and car spew, to bide

and poke along, hugging the tatty
collar the round way home,
beneath a wedging honk of geese,
the scarred and bloated moon.

From: Life In Two Parts
Published in Inkwell Journal