Tag Archives: poem

Sweet Potatoes

I don’t know
if they are a fruit
or a vegetable
or a tuber
or something else entirely
because they look
almost alien
like something
too imperfect
to have been born
in the earth—
but there they are
covered in mud
like a newborn
covered in blood—
ugly pink skin
over flesh so tough
it takes a blade
full of serrations
to cut to the root
of the mystery—
which is that the god
of sweet potatoes
doesn’t care
that they aren’t beautiful
or tender
or easy
to consume.








Welcome Packet

Dearest lover,
I have compiled
a list of instructions—
a user guide for this body
you claim to love—
know first
that my heart
is not filled by you—
you alone do not feed
or complete me.
There will always be
an unnamed vacancy
beside you.
Please know
my time with you
will never be enough
and will often be too much
and I will need
to recede into solitude
where I will suffer
from regrets
I will never share with you.
I will expect you
to read my mind
when I am silent—
and when you can’t
I’ll withdraw from you
for a while
until I remember
you can’t see
into my imagination.
When I re-emerge
I’ll require copious
amounts of affection
and will need
to give you even more
than I receive.
Know that I will need you
more than you need me
but I will never
show it.





Quadradic Equation

being alone
on a cold
November evening
watching the trees
release their orange
into the wind
and lonely
has nothing to do
with silence
or the dark shadows
that slowly
enter your room
and lonely
in the open space
between the stars—
is the
navigable road
between two houses
it’s the closable
that goes unclosed
is your otherwise
empty hand
a photograph
of someone
you love
who loved you
not enough
to feel the absence
of your face
as a problem
that needed to be
and solved.





all you want
is something
so simple
the words
you must use
to ask for it
feel too complex
and redundant
so you remain
hoping that
the one you love
will feel you
slipping under
and without
even asking
if you need
a hand
will pull you
back up
to the surface
and hold you
until you’re
ready to let go.




“The Kiss” Gustav Klimt, 1908

Your Name

I know one day
I’ll be buried
under these memories
instead of your body
draped so casually
over mine
because I’m running
out of excuses
for why I need
the entire Sunday
afternoon to do
what could be done
on any other day
in half the time—
and those lies I tell
are so flimsy
and weakened
by my love for you
that it’s just
a matter of time
before I’ll come clean
with a confession—
and your name will
be so heavy
down in my heart
I don’t know how
I’ll lift it into my voice
without breaking.






“The Lovers” by Rene Magritte, 1928