Turns out we were an incomplete
theory. Our drifting clouded by
blocked chimneys.

And then even our rift failed.
We were destined
never to become

an ocean.

We polished our exposed, surface
rocks for too long. Did we wag
our tails while dreaming

of each other in our sleep?
What a drag it was to realize
you would never get

how devastating it was
to learn about Jesus
in a Quonset hut

with no heat
or natural water basins
nearby to admire.

When I told you
I wanted to get lost
on the island again,

you replied you wanted
to get lost, too,
in the mystery

of a lone rose petal fallen
on a narrow corridor runner.
We slipped beneath

Lake Superior
and did not drown.
Slippery elm bark tea

still brewing inside
the cabin when we returned.
When we stopped struggling,

we knew. We traipsed
across the black volcanic
cliffs of the North Shore

with nothing left to say.
Our 1.1 billion-year-old scar
fresh as the moon’s silence.

“There isn’t any other tale to tell, it’s the only light we’ve got in all this darkness.”
—James Baldwin, “Sonny’s Blues”


She wants to be the one
who has no fear

of breaking
the fourth wall

without a hammer.
Let plaster collect beneath

her fingernails.
She would walk without

a dog. Fish
without water. Survive

without being even
a footnote

in six-point type. Lies
no one’s going to believe.

She would sacrifice
everything to deliver these

eyes

to all of you.
She would no longer deny

the withdrawal its cup
of air. She wants

to say cup of trembling
without conjuring

all that. There she goes—
staring again.


“And I’ve felt stars outside
shining in my veins
I met the big blue light
face to face”
—Gold Star, “Sonny’s Blues

Psst, I have a secret.
Is this a symptom?

Hearing my own voice
calling out loud

in an empty field.
The sun shines brilliantly—

spilling all over the prairie,
finally fully covered

in snow.

I know you couldn’t wait
for me. I needed to find

my own bottom. Could not
borrow yours. My diagnosis

mine to make. Spared. Then not.
A week of

my life erased.
I tried to wipe them all

off the calendar
back then. Now,

I say all this
to remind the stars

(I cannot see)
how much I would give

to make my own
light. I whisper only to them

what the trail across that prairie
means to me. I return to things.

So long as she knows where
the flashlight is—another ice lantern

has disappeared into a trough
where memories of what winter

used to be have begun to collect:
ice fishing parties, outdoor hockey

games, x-country skiing, the porch
doubling as an extra freezer. So long

as the torch continues to burn
against the slate sky. So long as

the riddle keeps searching
for its hook, which slipped

into/onto

this ice melt mess of a lake
just as February began

to break through. So long
as she runs in shorts in the dead

of what used to be the longest
season in Minnesota. So long

as the other shoe dangles
precariously from a confused

birch branch. So long
as she leaves

messages in black
and blue ink on every flat surface

for her future self
who may not remember

any of this. So long as she can
still hear that strangely familiar

melodic voice: Do I dare
be so bold as to ask what’s next?

What are you?

Because the Bronx
is getting a public observatory,
and the dome will sing lullabies

to the reservoir and field in
the dark. Because another long-armed

poem sweeps in and around
all those dusty corners
and tenuously dangling

webs in search
of a true connection.

Because beyond the river
and sloping woods
behind an airport. Because

you can’t get there from here,
and the bridle path taunts

us from the other side.
Because shadows scour
graffiti-drenched concrete

beneath the overpass without
erasing a thing. Because cooler air

coming through the passage
after the aroma of spring
defines the last day

in January. Because it won’t last.
Because our trees

could become confused—
roots waking up,
branches leafing out

too early. Because
it’s February now,
and these apple slices

must be eaten before
they turn brown. Because

the falsework will rot soon,
and it will be time for you
to show me what you’ve got.

Because I used to be
merely a gully with a dream.

And what remains
of the ice lanterns
in the front yard.

Because the kiln takes its time
powering down. Because

how do you do

that thing you do?
Because a freight train

heads southwest as I wind
my way northeast. Because
I have Romeo

beside me. Juliet is no longer
leaning on you. Because falling

is not an option. Because
cement, cardboard, ceramic
tiles tucked securely inside

each car rattling by.
Because who am I

to question you
with my mudslide
tendencies? Because the devil’s

backbone is razor sharp.
Because the stars

can be seen in the city at night.

I am very honored to have my poem “The Last Time” published in the Addiction issue of Contemporary Verse 2 (CV2).

The moon startles me again.
How it hovers
above the prairie
in the middle
of a January afternoon.

How it hangs
like a faded paper
lantern left over
from an illumination night
festival held at the end

of some summer last century.
You will never be my bride
of the patron saint

of 101 chances. I will
never be the rock
that keeps the door ajar
just enough. I will never give
myself a break

in the darkness. No, I will break
a glass to relieve the tension
between dormant wisteria vines
and the pedestrian bridge
they dangle over. I don’t want

to know what will happen
when the lake ice-in
and ice-out dates

clash, overlap, dissolve.
When the moon refuses
to rise and the thin places
disappear into the seam
between never and ending.

Finally, some negative degrees °F
(windchill double digits below zero)
to resume Minnesota winter bragging rights.

Weeping willows drape their bare
golden vine veils in sweet sadness.
They don’t scrape the cool blue sky

the way neighboring columnar red maples
reach upward to tickle
stray clouds. The eyes

of paper birches peer through
white bandages without giving away
what they see after dark.

You want to know what’s inside
those mysterious wooden crates
laying beside the finally frozen lake.

A rainbow of canoes, stacked
in their racks without a current purpose,
hovers around a bend in the trail.

Whittled from a 20-foot,
wind-damaged bur oak trunk,
the Lake of the Isles #2 pencil

sculpture leans but refuses
to fall. All that’s left
of a 180-year-old tree.

You’ve layered up and are ready

to meet the weather
poets in their secret crystalline den
above the roots and ridge.

It’s that time of year: deflated
Santas on brown lawns. A mob
of wild turkeys blocks the trail.

Clapping gloved hands, you begin
to shoo them away.
Some putt and scatter

into the street, stopping traffic.
A woman walking towards you asks
through a bared-tooth smile:

“Are you trying to kill them?”
“Why, yes, I am. You’re next. Now git,”
you want to reply.

You keep quiet though.
This is Minnesota, if looks could
kill, and other cliches

cling to the ice
precariously covering
the southern lakeshore.

The lake struggles to freeze
and stay frozen.
Patches of cold black
water hemmed in by plates

of gray ice partially covered
by a fresh coat of snow. I cannot hold
the monochrome transition
in my gloved hands. Wild ice

spiders spread their darkest-ink
mystery as river maps
to consult before asking:
thick or thin?