Dandridge

Apr 20, 2026

In Dandridge, I buried the duckling,
its eyes cloudy, gray and slick
against a world it would never see.
The tiny head hanging from my palm,
yellow down, not yet feathers—soft
and perfect—covered by
red clay and dry grass.

In the car, you unfolded the map
to Richmond and pressed a red
Bic line up 81 through Virginia.
Dried tear tracks plowed the makeup
on your cheeks. The last of the boxes
stacked to the roof, obscuring
the rear window and pressing the cooler
against the back of my seat.

I pushed an old river stone into the
soft soil and set a dandelion across
its smooth top. When I returned
to the car, you had almost finished
your wine and unwrapped a sandwich.

“I prefer goodbyes in the evening,”
you said, tilting the glass to your lips.

I turned the ignition.
Everything behind us lay covered
in cardboard and clay.

Spin

Apr 7, 2026

Restlessness is a god
Still feet never climb temple steps
a single eye sees only itself

Truth is alive on the wind
through your hair, across your cheeks
you taste it in the dance

breathe it in the flurry

Rows

Apr 6, 2026

Grandpa’s garden spilling past its fence line,
five bushel baskets, three laundry pails,
four cardboard boxes waiting.
My brothers and I straddling a row each,
our bare backs white as biscuit dough
flat against the morning sun,
young hands grappling
for deep red tomato flesh and
fat fingers of snap beans.

Flies biting through back sweat.
Pa on his walker, pacing the grounds
with a dragging shuffle
like a chain-gang boss, already
tasting the crunch of squash
and okra between his teeth.
Granny Mary in the kitchen wiping
spider webs from cool cellar jars.

Our baskets filling fast, lugging
through coffee-colored soil,
tater bugs hitching rides
eager for a larger garden, thick
with fancy baking potatoes
the size of melons,
leaves like fifty dollar bills.

First to reach the other side wins—never me.
Pa yelling reasons why I’m falling behind.
Two brothers sucking popsicles on the steps.
For me, thirty feet of onions to go.
“Don’t pull up those small ones!”

Street Show

Apr 1, 2026

The hurdy-gurdy man’s monkey
snatched your only dollar
and you clapped

then turned on Thomas Avenue,
and scaled the front steps of
the brownstone.

I watched a third floor silhouette
tilting a pot of tea
to one cup.

Lamp darkened like a beggar’s hope
corroded fire escape
leading up.

Tossed

Mar 25, 2026

The next evening,
cicadas gossiped—
anxious to tell
in quivering accent
the story of
your
Judas kiss
in the visitor’s dugout
next to the neon
hum of Barb’s Burgers

Beneath a blood moon
at the deserted ball field
like a barren beach—
wind blowing red clay
waves over third base
cheered on by the leaves
of a twisted oak

Your eyes closed
cheek in his hand
night air weaving your
breaths together into a
loose tapestry

Thick hand sliding
the band off
your ponytail
releasing the bundle
of buff sea grass
down your neck

Lips
a shy soft shell
crab burying itself in the
murky depths drowning
with no rescue
swallowed instead

The ocean took
you
and the tide came back
empty

All souls
were lost

Platoon

Mar 23, 2026

it is good
   who is good
who can tell what is good

clergy wrapped in tissue robes
   wine and loaf
        spoiled like rotted fish

college counselor
        touching your sweater too long
rubbing until his wedding ring
                       hung in the threads

   I should have broken the car window
     instead of waiting hours
                    in the rain until
the truck arrived and rescued
the keys

we drove to the country and made love
     for the first time— guilt
soft, warm, wet
              at morning every tree had
a penis and breasts

       you would never be a mom
and I can’t help but think
                        that was my fault