Some will look for life
in a utility hole.

Some will find only futility
buried beneath. A lid

tragically misplaced.
Some will not

know what to do
with such broad shoulders.

How to tilt and shrug

to fit in. Some won’t try
till the others leave and the light

below begins to leak through. Begins
to bathe the street

in amber. Tree resin sighs
in the air. None will notice

how she struggles
to trace the shape of the island

in lilac petals that cover the sidewalk.
How desperate she has become

to prove she does not forget
during the times between.

And how her hand shakes
from the shadowy burden.

A face almost always hidden.
One day someone will show her

how to hold a one-way ticket
tightly enough to keep it

from blowing away
on a windy night crossing.

If only you could
reclaim these bricks
before they disintegrate. If

only you could rescue
the salt from your spit
before its echo

of shapes dissolves
into the shadows
of oaks. If only you could

dodge the edges. If
the first egret you see
this season chases

a red-winged blackbird
off the fishing pier.
If a gentle morning breeze

chases pink
lilac petals
to the ground. Green

chases away
the identity of trees, and if
my words chase you.

It comes after
she smells the prairie’s late
winter breath
before she opens her eyes.

It comes after being
so wound up
she forgets
to check the wound.

It comes after invisible
healing overnight
that coincides with
banging from the apartment

above, moaning
next door. A wild animal
climbs up
the drain pipe.

It comes after the dancing
gets out of hand.
And the driver has taken
the long way home.

It comes at the moment
the backseat
ruminator (that’s me)
notices how straight

and narrow

and true
the trail looks
from here
come spring.

A new incline on an old route
leads east as a western wind
blows through the tops
of birches. Bottom feeders stir
in a creek. Mud dries
in a wetland nearby. As far
as she is concerned, the day
holds only carefree moments
dropping everywhere. Nowhere
left to hide from the bounty.

She wears indigo
fog on her feet. Gently.

Everything crumbles
at its own pace. She

survives

it. No one knows
why so sad now.

This love/hate relationship
with the nearest star.

Decades pass
at their own pace. The sand

is so cool

between her toes.
She can barely distinguish

the ferry’s form
as it breaks

the inky horizon. So much to bless
about that boat and its ancestors.

Without them,
she would have no reason

for this island-shaped
tattoo covering her heart.

I am honored to have two poems (“What If Blue” on page 21 and “This Scent” on page 78) published in Blue: A Humana Obscura Anthology.

Through poetry and art, this anthology explores the many shades of blue as a reflection of both the world around us and the worlds within us. A portion of submission fees for this anthology were donated to Ocean Conservancy, a nonprofit environmental advocacy group that promotes healthy and diverse ocean ecosystems and advocates against practices that threaten oceanic and human life.

She wants to tell
the prairie how she stands

on one foot for minutes
when she’s missing

the trees winds
took last summer.

She wants to sing
to the prairie how she sleeps

through errant thunderstorms
during the nights

between meteorological
and astronomical

spring.

And the balance
between light and dark lives

in the gray gaps where shoulder
seasons are brewing.

She wants to comfort
the prairie with this.

with each strand
she finds
on the pillow

or sink

with each lash that curls
around a finger
with each

expression that won’t
appear because the brow
won’t furrow

or arch

with each void
she enters
with each secret she can’t

keep

any longer
with each song
she knows

how to sing
inside that void
with each face

she remembers
having—some saved
some not

with each chaotic
dance beneath
all the stars she can’t

see

in the urban night
with each sip
of coldness craved afterward

with each pink sky
dawn breaking over century-
old brick apartment buildings

with each palm
open she reaches
up and over resolved

A rift between drifters will spill
over a giant phantom’s epidermis

that goes on forever
like pi—never to be solved.

Some of us will be born airborne.
Others, nesting terns that follow

moon beam lanterns,
ready to be rescued on cue.

When we recover sight
of our first cove, we will know

it’s over.

It will be a geometry of ions
that contains all the questions

we will not answer during this
quest. It will be a disaster

of aster blooms to come next fall.
It will be the image of our age

as it gets written ten times
on a tangled vine

that has tumbled down another
ravine. So much will be left

unsaid

about the air that comforts
the prairie each morning.

Last night’s dream—another
lover (crossed off
the list years ago) talks

nonstop

in a back room lit so
irresponsibly. Her watch
stops. It’s past time

to leave. She can’t
make out the license
plate numbers

through the glass.
She slips through a door
without hinges. Outside,

it’s colder than she
remembers. Back inside
and repeat. Snap.

How can she know
till she sees it?
How can she see it

when his fingerprints
block the view
from this angle? She chooses

the sting

of substantial windchill
over the agonizing drone
of lies. She awakes

hours before dawn
this time of year, a bag
of screws beside the bed.