And somehow I’m supposed to get dressed in the morning / when most days arrive like a gold chain tangled in black chest hair.
101. A Christmas morning fight with mom. / 103. The space shuttle exploding over and over on the TV in the school cafeteria. / 104. My yellow v-neck sweater with key-shaped lapel pin which read JESUS.
Aaina’s mom collects shiny things like a magpie. The one time Aaina sneaked me into her house, I walked past rows of gold photo frames, silver handicraft elephants and raindrop chandeliers.
Please, I need those thick markers from the craft store, you know, the ones that color far away from each other; you turn the corner into golden golden golden any night
You will etch your name in the most lunar dust. This world / may be large enough for none of us, saddest darling.
“I saw you by the river last night,” Amy says, her eyes still closed and half-covered by strands of almond-brown hair. “Why didn’t you follow me?”
They laid out their sweat-stained clothing while the geyser was quiet, placid. They backed away and waited for her to erupt.
There was no doubt in Bea’s mind that they referred to the geyser as “she.”
It’s simple, really. / You, like the other yous / are gone, returned to the God of metals.
Too Tired For Sunshine is a photobook by Hobart's own Tara Wray, to published by Yoffy Press... more
After being hospitalized in 1968 / for an aortic aneurysm, Rothko’s doctor / prescribed that he only paint and draw / on mediums less than three feet tall.
And what is essential for me to believe is that / the plants themselves were changed by Joan, / that bathing with her in the light and fragrance
spirits in the trees / hush love hush love / go’on fly home
I am glad to report that the Great Iowa State Fair Haiku Contest was a roaring success.
On this poorly planned excursion I had a bucket of coffee and exactly one CD – my brother’s copy of Death Cab’s then brand new Narrow Stairs.
how you came with shadows, / but not darkness, like the other person I love, / the type of darkness that lays like a quilt.
It’s bronzy August and I need this to be all over. / Most of my poems are shaped like crows, / so what’s eating you?
A man spills a red solo cup down my shirt like hands. Hands bury in my skin. The speakers bury in my skin. I have never felt farther from the sky, or from my own spit.
The pinwheels of my mourning, having moved to a windless town.
Rarely do I think of death while gnawing the bottom of a vanilla cone.