My stomach drops
Like a faint
And without warning
It is on the floor
An unwanted anchor
That keeps me
From moving, sprinting, climbing, freeing
My body
Of the weight
Of knowledge
That I am not-
Not enough
Not right now
Not yet
Not like that.
And even though that ship has sailed
This anchor drags
Me behind it
Scraping every
Stone, catching every reef,
Blinded by its wake and bruised, not
by the movement, but by my inability
To let go.


Homemade Soup from a Heavy Blue Pot

Will you be
my recipe
book? Can I call
on you
for curry advice and browse
your index
when I feel lost? Say yes, and I will flip through
your pages, pausing
at the picture
of a small brown-haired child with large eyes
and a wooden spoon.  I will eat
homemade soup from a heavy blue pot
and when ice
clings to naked boughs,
I will open
you slowly, read you
thoroughly and test your truth
with every

First Date Fail

(Based on last night. No hard feelings for Mr. Date)

In a small, dark, dive bar, the
bartender makes me
a negroni. I sip.
And wait.

He arrives in a fluster.
I stand, he
turns- No hug, no touch. So I
sit, he perches: Nervous, or alert?

We talk. He asks, I respond. I gain
momentum, expressing
myself strongly, this
is my passion, it’s
important it is
life and truth and-
He changes
subject. “That’s not appropriate
first date fodder.”

So we talk. I question, he
rambles, I nod. Do we want
another drink? No, let’s go- that band is playing soon.

We walk, with space between us,
no tension, just empty
boredom- up the blocks, I focus on avoiding
sidewalk cracks.

He pays the cover fee, but I opt out-
like I’m choosing
a TSA pat-down
over possible radiation exposure,
except this option involves much less