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No One Is Going To Die

You are friendless
on a night
it would be helpful
to have someone intervene
and interrupt your sorrow
and take away the bottle
that is almost as empty
as your heart—
so all you can do
is pretend you see a light
at the end of this dark tunnel
where he waits for you
the man who could erase
your tears just by existing
a little closer
to where you are







All Those Nights

Those nights
when I slept beside you
there was no space
between our skin
no impediment
my love
from yours
no facts that pointed
to a truth
waiting in the future
that said
we wouldn’t survive
the second summer
and I’m so glad
I didn’t suspect
in those moments
that my hands
on your body
would be a temporary bliss
that the tenderness
in your eyes
would haunt me
when I looked for you
and saw
that you were gone.




Introducing Gut Punch Poetry

Hey Friends!

I started a YouTube channel for my poetry! It’s called Gut Punch Poetry.

I’ll still be posting here, but if you want to hear me read my work, please subscribe!

You can like, share, comment, and ask questions! It will feel more engaging and personal.

I’ve been putting it off because I didn’t feel I had the right setup (the right camera and audio equipment, the right space, the right lighting, etc…) BUT I just needed to BEGIN.

I figure I can make improvements over time, and I’m sure I’ll look back on my early videos with shame and embarrassment, but I had to start somewhere!



My days are spent
with a dozen children
who do not know
their mothers.
Mothers I pretend
are dead
were stricken with grief
the day they exchanged
their baby
for their freedom
from the life sentence
of a disabled child.
And though
my own children
were born
into perfection
I remember the way it felt
to see them struggle
with what would one day
become easy.
will not be
a part of these lives
but there are moments
with each of them
that inspire praise
and adoration—
a crude drawing
of a school bus,
a new word correctly used,
hard-won comprehension.
I like to kiss the tops
of their heads
and pull them into me—
and for a moment
I am their mother
in love
with my creation.







“A Dame’s School” by Thomas Webster, 1845


The evidence of her joy is clear
in the photos they took of each other
on the water
on the mountain tops
on that fallen sycamore so old or so heavy
it had to come down and block the trail,
which is sort of what happened
when she learned
she was not the right size after all—
that her form was too female
too wide for such a narrow idea of beauty.
And what the photos don’t show
is his inability to see the needle in the haystack
even when his arm
is wrapped so tightly around it.







Heart Failure

By accident
or maybe on purpose
you cross the yellow line
you accelerate
toward the small dark circle
coming toward you
and you have exactly
7 seconds to decide
how this is going to end
6        5        4
you return to your lane
your flatlined heart
beating again
as the lives
you decided you’d spare
speed past.