name unspoken

You know, when he’s with me, he

doesn’t talk about you.

There was that one time

when he called me your name

from the kitchen

“what did you say?”

FROZEN, cutting onions,


“I didn’t say anything”

Then nothing.

More chopping, more sauteing, more

movement, oven door opens forcefully

and is closed just as forcefully in an

uneven jerking motion.

His forehead vein bulging,

blood quietly pumping, and more

chopping, cilantro this time.

Now that I think about it, the

only way I really ever hear

your name is when it drips casually off of

my children’s tongues, artificial syrup sweet, and, like old spat out toothpaste,

sticks to the corners of their cotton

candy pink mouths.

It just stays there, dried and caked and cracking.

No one really notices, other than that

it looks odd and out of place on such a

beautiful child from such a

beautiful family.

But he himself, the master and commander of his

own destiny, the sad girl,  no he never says your name,

in fact has never once said your name– on purpose— and he

pretends you don’t exist, when

he’s with me.


i’m obvious

It all seems so obvious.

I sit down, profound,

emerge from yoga, pilates,

the works.

Instagram super models:


that’s all I see up in here,

ground floor apartment

“bankrupt on selling”

modest breasts

heavy laden heart.

It all seems so obvious,

cold-pressed, Taylor

Swift red and reverberating, cat calls,

does she remind us of someone we used to know?

Or is it just an innocent crush?

A longing for an old hidden place,

the inside of a shell, an under

stair closet, is that it?

All I know is: red lips are all I can think about.

“Do I need medication for this?” I wonder

aloud to no one in particular, wishing though

that he could hear, that he could hear and care

and perhaps do something about the irreverent

madness that settles in every so many moons

or so many months or


[ aside: all the while I’m thinking about my stomach, repeating “Up an inch, down an inch” my abdominal mantra.]

Here in my shell I forget about God, its all self effacing and navel grazing.

It’s a cold and dark place, wet and

unsettled, like water inside your sleeping bag

on a camping trip, and you’re drunk, and

you just want to go to sleep. In between dreams

I can hear the wind whistling through my bones,

but like I said,

it all seems so obvious,

so uninspired,

I can hardly even write about it.

Gag reflex,

oh the embarrassment of

being so obvious.


domestic doomsday

I’m a domestic failure

I spend a lot of time cowering

in corners

paralyzed by spiderwebs

mold growing in tiled crevasses

hard pressed for strength,

time, endurance,

the character needed to push

through the rock,

the hard place. It’s concerning

really, how difficult the simple things

are, sometimes, all

the time maybe. Waiting for quiet, echoless,

still sweet spaces, and when they come–

as infrequent and as glittering gold as a gilded butterfly–

those untouched corners chase them off again

hurry hurried never ending

hungry like the wolf, as they


oh, to be golden and winged, a creature gliding on currants made

by the breath of others!

domesticity killed the cat

the bear,

the lady in waiting,


the butterfly waits, breathless, inhaling

a parasitic lover,

but golden, aloft, spotlit