selected past writing at 42opus
You died in spring.
I go in fall,
not to the grave but
past the hog farm…
The winter it is past, and the simmer comes at last,
And the small birds sing on ev'ry tree:
The hearts of these are glad, but mine is very sad,
For my love is parted from me.
…and it wasn't any big deal, but I knew
I'd crossed some line somewhere.
I wonder how many of us have,
without anyone ever guessing?
2 March 2002 | poetry
Each day less
room less water. What I wouldn't give
for roses and thorns for
roses. We drew straws
and she cried
that glass shod bitch birches
follow her home…
15 January 2009 | poetry
My boyfriend is a helium balloon, way above me, gently tugging at my hand. His head tosses in the breeze, craning whichever way the wind blows, his neck long and flimsy. I tell my friends how jealous this makes me—that he's looking at other girls—and they say I am being silly.