POETRY COLLECTION:
What I Wore to the Mental Hospital
Is it a pink tulle or zebra stripe satin day? Fashion and mental health. That's my sweet spot. So, clothes tell my story -- from the crimson challis dress my grandma stitched to the roses I embroidered on a muslin peasant blouse. Here are some published poems from this collection-in-progress which is dedicated to my mom.
These two poems recently appeared in New Ohio Review. The editors nominated the first one for a Pushcart Prize. (It's an acrostic poem for those who love a puzzle) Fingers crossed!
At the Dry Cleaners
Gallowed to metal
hangers shawled in tissue,
oodles of men’s button-down shirts
striped and paisleyed
tremble with
starch and steam.
Draped on each
one, a lucent shroud
not quite water. Spreadsheets
ordain their owners’ P&L routines, but
today, they damn their
S-Corp, derivative,
cash flow ways. Today, they
account for nothing. They
ride this trolley with my
executive chambrays,
my spider satin, my
eyelash knit, my minx
merino, my chiffon
uh-oh. And on this wanton
carousel, I phantom
hoochy coo with them all.
My Foreman Reaches
I am lost in his tinseled labyrinth,
in a forest of silver studs. I follow
what he abandons. Screws. Dust.
A Carhart glove. He climbs a ladder
to the second story through a rectangle
cut in the ceiling and reaches his palm
to me, creased and cupped like a worn
baseball mitt. We sit at the hole’s edge.
Our legs dangle, a shoe chandelier.
Hard hats below bump and glide.
In this liminal place I want him, I
don’t want him, to build
a staircase here.
At the Dry Cleaners
Gallowed to metal
hangers shawled in tissue,
oodles of men’s button-down shirts
striped and paisleyed
tremble with
starch and steam.
Draped on each
one, a lucent shroud
not quite water. Spreadsheets
ordain their owners’ P&L routines, but
today, they damn their
S-Corp, derivative,
cash flow ways. Today, they
account for nothing. They
ride this trolley with my
executive chambrays,
my spider satin, my
eyelash knit, my minx
merino, my chiffon
uh-oh. And on this wanton
carousel, I phantom
hoochy coo with them all.
My Foreman Reaches
I am lost in his tinseled labyrinth,
in a forest of silver studs. I follow
what he abandons. Screws. Dust.
A Carhart glove. He climbs a ladder
to the second story through a rectangle
cut in the ceiling and reaches his palm
to me, creased and cupped like a worn
baseball mitt. We sit at the hole’s edge.
Our legs dangle, a shoe chandelier.
Hard hats below bump and glide.
In this liminal place I want him, I
don’t want him, to build
a staircase here.
This poem recently appeared in The McNeese Review next to two poems by former US Poet Laureat, Ada Limon.
My First Bike
The junkyard bike frame dangles
from the basement beam, a ditzy
plumbing contraption, while dad whistles
with sandpaper and ox-hair brushes,
arms dredged in rust flakes.
He tenders it to me like a crown on tuffet.
I suck the pulp where a front tooth once
wiggled. No glitter. No mirrored bell. No
gears stacked behind me like tulle
tiers on a princess. No thanks.
Turpentine and his Winston wheeze sears
my inhale as he grips the seat and handlebar
and stills my tippling. He runs beside me
and lets go. With a shove. Which feels
like faith muddled with rage.
My First Bike
The junkyard bike frame dangles
from the basement beam, a ditzy
plumbing contraption, while dad whistles
with sandpaper and ox-hair brushes,
arms dredged in rust flakes.
He tenders it to me like a crown on tuffet.
I suck the pulp where a front tooth once
wiggled. No glitter. No mirrored bell. No
gears stacked behind me like tulle
tiers on a princess. No thanks.
Turpentine and his Winston wheeze sears
my inhale as he grips the seat and handlebar
and stills my tippling. He runs beside me
and lets go. With a shove. Which feels
like faith muddled with rage.
So excited to have this poem published in Boudin’s recent issue. Go to Workplace: Wounds and Woes ’24 – The McNeese Review to read other poems in their collection.
The Building Manager
When their Schwinns and Toyotas slink
out the drive, I haunt their burrows.
I thaw her sibilance with a comma splash
and one tangled ampersand. His easel
creaks as I dab fuschia, his sunset now
inferno. I thread golden floss and scatter
a spray of satin stitch and French knots
in her tapestry, her poppies now electric.
My Schlage and skeleton keys chatter.
I whistle through the gap where
an incisor never took root,
no one to notice my dust
of music.
The Building Manager
When their Schwinns and Toyotas slink
out the drive, I haunt their burrows.
I thaw her sibilance with a comma splash
and one tangled ampersand. His easel
creaks as I dab fuschia, his sunset now
inferno. I thread golden floss and scatter
a spray of satin stitch and French knots
in her tapestry, her poppies now electric.
My Schlage and skeleton keys chatter.
I whistle through the gap where
an incisor never took root,
no one to notice my dust
of music.