Poetry

Zipporah with a zippo trying forever to spark the dried brush of a man. An Egyptian man, the kind with connections. How can her meager mounds compare with the pyramids? Her eye lashes match the great palms of the Nile? Her floods aren’t as deep and her hands are more...

A book of metal binding Holds three pictures, sometimes six All the faces smiling They didn’t live through this The edges, they are blackened From the smoke, not from the heat These are the survivors of the fire of 16th street My mother and my father In black tux and...

The chill is drawn Around him like a swimming pool Feet first, then straight to spine A late March snowstorm Drip plopping to the roads Rain or Snow? Happy or leftover Chinese? Left in the fridge, congealed. Complacent in its grease.

My father was always a fan of wall socket justice The way to live was to stick a penny in and twitch a little Shards of cookie jar couldn’t break his smile over my mastery of the kitchen chair, a bucket and a stick “Need a longer stick.” He laughed...

Indifference wears at a good man More than just the waves that crash upon him but the creatures each leaves behind the crawling burrowing things that crack and cleave – So soon What once a stalwart stone is someone else’s sandcastle.