In our deepest moments we say the most inadequate things.

-Edna O’Brien

My writing

neil armstrong’s s p a c e b o o t s

This poem is inspired by this super wild fact I learned the other day:

Did you know that the astronaut Neil Armstrong actually left his space boots on the moon? I didn’t.

I don’t know what it is
About the silver orb flying
High and illuminating the darkness
That makes me feel
A little less lonely
When my whole world is asleep.

Maybe it’s the comfort found in knowing
That a pair of giant boots
Sits up there all alone,
Much like myself.
That their existence is so far away
From everything I know.

Or maybe it’s that I’m alive in the midst
Of space exploration:
The limbo between you, with your
Space boots that you left
In the safety of the moon,
And the many others that will follow.

Not my writing

“What Do Women Want?” by Kim Addonizio

This is once of my favorite published poems! Here’s the source.

I want a red dress.
I want it flimsy and cheap,
I want it too tight, I want to wear it
until someone tears it off me.
I want it sleeveless and backless,
this dress, so no one has to guess
what’s underneath. I want to walk down
the street past Thrifty’s and the hardware store
with all those keys glittering in the window,
past Mr. and Mrs. Wong selling day-old
donuts in their café, past the Guerra brothers
slinging pigs from the truck and onto the dolly,
hoisting the slick snouts over their shoulders.
I want to walk like I’m the only
woman on earth and I can have my pick.
I want that red dress bad.
I want it to confirm
your worst fears about me,
to show you how little I care about you
or anything except what
I want. When I find it, I’ll pull that garment
from its hanger like I’m choosing a body
to carry me into this world, through
the birth-cries and the love-cries too,
and I’ll wear it like bones, like skin,
it’ll be the goddamned
dress they bury me in.

My writing

3 a.m.

I wonder why
There are so many cars out
At three in the morning.

I’ll admit it;
I’ve been there before.
I’ve been on one of those
3 a.m. roads.

But I know my story.
What of the hundreds of others?

The run down car.
So ancient
That it shouldn’t be working.
Where does it need to go?
Why couldn’t it wait till daybreak?

The flashy convertible.
Laughter and music
flowing out through the windows,
Infecting the dark night sky.
The one of a kind magic
Only found in 3 a.m. cars.

A bulky van
And a family of five.
I wonder if the passengers are awake,
Gazing at the stars
Or sound asleep,
Dreaming 3 a.m. dreams

Are they coming back
From a road trip?
A vacation?
Did they like it?
Or are they yearning
For the comfort of home?

The occasional 3 a.m. bus.
So many passengers.
So many destinations.
So many stories.

The people on 3 a.m. roads-
Are they running from something?
Are they running towards something?

Either way,
Some things cannot wait till the morning.
3 a.m. roads
Are the way to go.

My writing

Love Like Bones

I have a love like bones
Both human and primitive,
It guides all that I do.
A secret mechanism
Lying beyond what the eye can see.

I have a love like bones,
Much like your own.
But mine has its own marks,
Its own dents and cracks.

My love like bones
Falters and breaks from time to time.
I can only ask it to do so much.
But I know in the end, it will all be alright.
My love never fails to mend.

My love like bones,
Dependable and strong,
Yet holds all that is dear so gently.
My friends, family, and passions,
Enveloped in its warm embrace.

This love like bones
Has hurt and healed.
It helps me bloom,
And grows as I do.

When times get tough,
I remind myself to ask,
Where would I be
Without this love like bones?

My writing · parody

13 Ways of Looking at Nighttime

This is a parody of the poem “13 Ways of Looking at a Black Bird” by Wallace Stevens.

Among twenty-two houses on Diamond Court,   
The only moving things   
Were my eyes searching the night sky.   

I was of a billion ideas,   
Like a sky   
In which there are a billion stars.   

The moon glistened in the vast sky.   
It was a small part of the universe.   

The sun and the moon   
Are one.   
The sun and the moon and the stars   
Are one.   

I do not know which to prefer,   
The allure of mysteries   
Or the thrill of fear,   
The darkness approaching   
Or the light receding.   

Waves crawled up the beach   
With coarse sand.   
The reflection of the moon   
Trembles on the water.   
The mood   
Flickering on the ocean
The imitation of a cause.   

O brave campers of Death Valley,   
Why do you imagine golden suns?   
Do you not see how the darkness
Shrouds the figures
Of the beasts about you?   

I know wicked scandals
And terrible, destructive secrets;   
But I know, too,   
That the night brings out
What I know.   

When the moon descended out of sight,   
It marked the end
Of one of many cycles.   

At the sight of the night sky  
Lifeless, without a single star,   
Even the jewel thieves
Would cry out sharply.   

They drove through California   
In a Toyota Camry.   
Once, wonder came over them,   
In that they mistook   
The stars in the sky
For constellations.   

The sun is sinking.   
Nighttime must be arriving.   

It was dark all morning.   
It was freezing  
And it was going to freeze.   
The moon hid
Behind thick, ominous clouds.