I am originally from Boston, currently living in the Midwest, where I freelance write advertising and communications. I write poetry to gather in fragmented perceptions, instincts, and pieces of myself that are unnamed or wandering.

Joy Crept Up

Joy crept up
sadder than I thought she’d be
like sheets that finally found their softness
this final spinning time around
this time it was easier
to measure
the length of limbs
the heat each child-inch collected then sent forth
it was easier
and that was joy
because there had been no measure before
and many a stilling night
I’d lain down for.


The winter that you are dying
I learned that the white tail deer
moves as little as she possibly can
each step a delicate poem of consideration for herself
a balance of insight
and spotless animal brilliance
that still eludes me.
I wish I had been kind
enough to forego
the snapped twig
the single frosted stench
I had to rush to
and quiver
from for days.

You could not lift your hand
but tried
as if I was to pray with you
as if you had ever
taught me to pray.

There is no struggle with winter but that
of too much motion, a lover's sleepless
arms, the turning cold stars.
Forgetfulness fueled her fury is that what you think?
Even an
ear flickering demands attention now
How proud you will be to see her
lift a hoof quietly,
lower it quieter still,
as if that could save her.

Five thousand miles I flew
a hundred miles under me turned to paper
illusions of distance from grief's waiting grip
back home I refuse to walk in the woods
I am still the beauty and the horror of motion in winter
I am still her running
I am still her that says no.


A limping man
in ice rain
found his laundry coins
and the triumph turned the
city-greyed hag eyes toward him.
So this is what lonliness is.

Jam on a window-sill,
a smug ruby
pulling like a tongue.
A fire-swept cleanliness
and the cruel illumination of a
slow, watchful Sunday.

Then a grandmother is
looking through recipes
pecans, newspaper clippings
taped to cards, steam-wilted,
mushroomed with stains, sauces
and candles. Remember
when he knocked the
wine glass from my hand?

All the while toes are tapping
small, fetal rhythms, waiting.
We will sit on refrigerators
cram ourselves into dryers
rattle in grocery carts
scream for a reason just like you.
And watch our children become lonely too.


White dog ran away
I saved him only a little, filthy thing,
Before I turned back to myself
Muttering the old insults
Tumbling the
Old pebbles against my head

I stopped it all,
Torrent, traffic, mud, death
The scraggled string thin victory
Streaked by me
And then turned
Because I did nothing, really,
Could do nothing more
The whiteness of
The fur just another
Thing running by my noisy head
In a blur

Now I hold it only
By the thin thread of wonder.
That is the only way I even know
What is
Running on without me
Out there.


hating myself
slippery piece of chicken
and trying not to eat the skin
At the stoplight under the bridge
two white cops stand carefully away from the dark, curled body
too relaxed to be just sleeping
on her side
hips jutting sensuously.
They look self-consciously around.

If you forget, no matter what,
our measure is revealed
in the times we manage to think of ourselves.