I write poems that trace the small moments between family, relationships, and the wider universe we’re part of. These pieces offer a glimpse of the themes I return to: connection, wonder, and the shifting shape of meaning.
The Family Rate
My son leans into his work, intent on the truck engine a problem to be puzzled out, a tangled mystery to solve. Lost in mechanical mindfulness, the world outside fades to white noise broken by the ratchet of a wrench. A black canvas work bag holds the tools needed for this month’s fix. He hums under his breath as he works, grease sliding over his knuckles, transferred to cheek as he absentmindedly rubs his face. Solutions flip through his mind like a game of solitaire. The loose bolt card, the electrical card, the faulty distributor card. He reaches into the work bag and grabs the right tool. Disconnecting wires, he sets parts on the hood ledge, pokes around, raises a hand in triumph. A gentle ah-ha and he turns to me with a grin, meditative inquiry complete.
A faulty spark plug. He’s happy to fix it, solve the problem, help his mother. Another job accomplished with skills he’s honed over the years, trial and error, where hands-on learning beats book knowledge. He replaces the plug closes the hood, starts the truck. It hums. Pleased, it’s time to place the tools carefully back in their assigned slots, wipe his hands on a greasy rag, give a smile that crinkles his eyes. He hugs his mother goodbye, mindful of the dirty hands, mission complete, satisfaction high as he refuses the money I try to shove into his hand.
Originally published in Door is a Jar
Crossing the Lake Mid-Morning
My brother said, take ether oar, at least
that's what I heard. I worried the whole
paddle across the lake my oar would
vanish into a cloud of gas, leaving me
nothing to row with except my brother's
displeasure. Barely past the worthless girl
stage of life, yet expectant of hero worship,
I strove to please. I wanted to explain
ether was between all particles of matter,
so I hadn't really lost the oar, just misplaced
it in time and space. No one appreciates
a wanna-be scientist, least of all a brother
awash in blind reality. I gripped my paddle
so tightly blisters formed. As the canoe
grounded on the opposite bank, the blisters
split. I showed them to my brother, my idol,
and got a snort of exasperation and sibling
advice: Put your socks over your hands.
We still have to paddle back.
Originally published in The Avalon Literary Review
Encompassing Noise
Wind through the pines. Ringing in my ears.
Both persistent. I came to the mountain to think
about who matters but all I hear are tones
in my head—subtle whir of a fan, slosh of waves,
call of one distant bird whose cries never cease.
Voices outside my head can't compete.
The sound of my parents arguing is the steady
rise and fall of word swallows headed to the barn.
He had expectations, my father, that my mother
would care for him in his old age, his Parkinson's.
My mother's bee of resentment buzzed
in the background, until one day, silence.
The making of honey fell to my brother,
the one who stayed.
I am like her in all ways that matter save one.
Left with an insistent low drone loop in my head,
it drowns incomplete thoughts at birth,
expectations tiny bee corpses at my feet.
Originally Published in Anti-Heroin Chic
Molecule
Last night I let my left leg dangle outside
the covers, tempting monsters, dragging
painted toes through a dusty universe.
The Red Planet had water on its surface
sometime in the past. A twelve billion year old
cloud has one hundred forty trillion times
more water than earth's oceans.
The universe is bigger than I grasp.
Surrounding my resting place is matter,
gap down the side of the comforter fills
with atoms vying for space with the body
at rest. I am the nucleus, I'm positive,
an attraction to the myth under the bed—
feeding, feeding on particles of my soul.
New work