Eighth Grade

                                                                                                            

We were empty-eyed cinderblocks,

ringed keys unlocking the doorknobs.

Among junior high’s sleepy congregation, 

an audience of our class’s generation,

only some of us showed up praised and amen-ed.

School taught me typing for college essays 

and gave me chances to run away. 

We’d flood from the school at 3:05—

but only some return now for mid-life toasts.

Just listen up for the morning announcement:

we cannot know life while it lives so close.  

Dream Noir, April 2019

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Fall Out of Line

The neighbors mind. To eye her, 

they alternate spiraling the lighthouse,

all their anchors moored at the coast,

more oars approaching from the river fork. 

They part the drapes when she passes, 

crucifixes pulling at their throats.  

And unchaining their frustrations,

they hold her crimes always in mind,             

then spit at her likeness they posted all over—

from their cellars to their inner eyes.

They dream of opening her with all their saws, 

lugging buckets to collect her flow to the sea. 

And lusting, they try to torch her with prayer,

their hair fire-blown like unholy tongues.

But she stands in truths that hold her safe,

and they turn on each other to lie in wait. 

Feminine Collective, July 2019


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