dear winter

i know things have been rough between us lately, what with “global warming” and all. on behalf of humanity, i apologize. i’m sorry. i’m sorry we use energy inefficiently and i’m sorry we’re not smart enough or concerned enough or motivated enough to develop something better. but please, don’t leave so soon. stay awhile longer. bless us with your frosty breath and let me awake to icy roads and malformed snowmen. give us at least one goddamn snow day. (it’s one of the few perks of my job.)

half an inch

before we fall asleep
you look out the window and notice
the first snow of winter
finally falling
it thinly coats cars trees streets

and before we fall asleep
i pray it will stick till morning
so i can see the paw prints
of the black cat i just saw
running along the fence.

short story

fuck you, he said
then dissolved into
the rainy evening.

she shut the door like thunder
then fell against it,
melting into the floor.

eyes clouded with tears,
head in hands flashing hate,
she prayed to God:

Jesus, why is this so fucking hard?
let me be stone. let me be the ground.
solid. unfeeling. undisturbed. Jesus,
why is this so fucking hard? just
get me the hell out
of this body.


this class is boring as shit
i am bored
i am bored
i am bored–
i cannot understand this
i cannot do this
and i am sick of trying

i gave up long ago

in elementary school
when i had to read aloud
i stumbled over words
like tree roots in the dark
the other kids laughed
called me dumb
so i stopped reading aloud
i stopped reading
i felt ashamed and i did not want to feel

i hated that feeling
that same feeling when
i brought home my first Fs on my report card
and my mom yelled at me
why you so dumb?
why you lazy as shit?

it was easier to give up
than to keep trying
and keep failing
and keep feeling ashamed

i started to pretend like i didn’t care
like i wasn’t trying
it was just so much easier–
but i haven’t, really,
stopped caring
it still stings when i’m handed a book
i know i can’t understand
when my mom comes home
from parent-teacher conferences
and looks at me
like she wishes she had a different son.


she opens the envelope
replaces it on the table
closes eyes inhales
the words
written in cursive recognizably
rising and falling
written in syntax matching
the map of her thoughts limited by
blue lines blue lies
and all she ever hoped
you might say.

goodnight, moon

i called you
two minutes from home
because the moon,
low and orange and gigantic on the horizon,
was worth seeing

when you couldn’t see it
you told me to pick you up
so i pulled over
you stepped in
and we drove

no longer visible from
where i had called you
we continued to drive
over the bridge
into the next town–
to no avail–
nothing lay on the horizon anymore

we marveled
at the speed of the moon
(but really, the speed of the earth’s rotation)
kissed beneath nothing but a street lamp
and drove home.