he slices the backs of his thighs so
that one day they’ll notice it hurts

but not today –


today is too soon –


maybe, one day, a
will see the scars he
sat on for years

and care that he’s not ok;

Bouts with Flies

I chase flies against the window panes –
bashing at my reflection with claws retracted.

A big one creeps out of reach and nestles
next to the sealant in the top right hand corner.

So I watch it obsessively. Watch it. Until its buzzing
eats my ears again, burrowing into my headspace.


The people open windows for me. Shoo fly!

It obeys and returns to the world at their command.

I’m somewhat sad to see it go.

But there’ll be another along soon.

The Parting of the Ways

His feet – decades ahead and
achingly wise – have walked
the gravel in which my soul
now tries to shine. We exist
on different planes, despite
the matched crunch of our feet
in the dirt of a shared way
that ties our lives as tight
as the blood in our try-hard veins.

We walk this way together
a heart’s generational divide
that finds its echo in a loving past.

He told me to make the way my own
for his shell is not mine to escape.

The scalloped cup of the silver
spoon, resting heavy in my
thankful mouth, can never redeem
the trust of its inheritance.

My pilgrimage, found
in his magnificent footsteps,
diverts in ink onto handmade paper –
two roads diverging in a wood.