Seashore

The man with the large hat
Had lit the candles
And said alms and sang
Hymns about God
And whatnot

He had left them
Burning and melting
And the candles
Flickered and fought
For air while

The atmosphere
Staled and weird
People walked in
Painfully walking and
Begging for

Forgiveness
But the man with
The hat was already
Gone so all they
Had were the

Candles
So they focused
On the light while
Their pupils
Shrunk

Into tiny
Beads of black
But the candles
Did not like
It there

Where light
Only filtered
Through glass
Images of
Jesus

So the candles
Melted down
And ran
Away
Toward the

Seashore

Home

It’s the warmth; that feeling you can’t 
describe, like describing pink, or blue,
or maroon. That feeling finds you and 
follows you and shows up in surprise
locations. 

It comes when you are 
hugged, when you inhale spring, when 
someone smiles or brushes away the 
tears that were pouring through your 
heart because you were alone and 
forgot that home is everywhere. 

Home finds you 
within the pages of an aged 
book in the middle of a hidden aisle in a 
library, or at the apex of a park swing 
set. 

Home is warmth flowing inside you, 
rushing to your extremities, speaking in 
a hushed voice of quivering excitement. 
Home is grass, prickling your back, 
staining your jeans, leaving souvenirs to 
remind you that you were once home 
and you can always be home. 

Scents: 
the aroma of fresh pine needles being 
rubbed until they fall off dark green 
conifers, sweet lavender, rhubarb apple 
pie being baked in the oven. Tastes of 
sweetness and warmth, cool 
collectedness, dissolving on your 
tongue, but lasting in your mind to 
remind you. 

The warmth of a blanket on 
a frigid day, heavy down, 
fireplaces…smooth soft skin. Home 
is inside, that feeling of sustainment and 
peace you get when you realize nothing 
matters, because nothing really does.

The Mass

I was the fat baby,
The one who ate a whole 
Lobster and went back for 
Seconds, thirds, even.
I was a golden brown 
With frizzy hair
And a gapped toothed
Smile that brighten
Days. I would garden
With my parents
Or pretend to garden
Like babies do:
Imitate adults. 

And one day 
I was out
Pretending to garden,
Baby sized rake and spade,
Prepared to plant seeds
Of herbs like basil,
Mint, and sage
My namesake, when
I saw a fuzzy black
Crowd in a hole.
It was a bouncy, 
Jumbling, moving mass,
Separate creatures 
Creating one.


And I reached out my
Pudgy finger and poked
The monster in the 
Hole. And, the monster 
Started creeping up 
My arm,
A black mass of biting 
Individuals carrying
White eggs of their spawn.
I shook my arm, 
But they stayed, crawling.
I jumped, I stumbled, I flung
My arm about, hollering for
Help because they would 
Not go away.


My daddy ran and 
Grabbed the hose
And sprayed my 
Arm. “They are just ants,
Honey,” he said.
But I cried all the same
And I still do. 

In tenth grade as part of a creative writing workshop, I was tasked with writing a short story that involved a bridge...here's what I came up with. 

She was picking her toenails. I hate it when people do that, but she simply would not stop. Picking, that is. Her toes were a pickle-tinted lime green, my least favorite color. Her middle toe was longer than the other four, as if her toes were flipping me off.  I hated her. I didn’t even know her. But I hated her. She was chatting with a girl named Molly on the phone. “Maaah-lee, just shut up, I said shut up!” Her voice squeaked liked a dying pig. 

I realized that I had been staring. I had stopped mid-jog. I had taken off my headphones. Chopin was still blaring from the speakers. The girl looked at me. She stood up, swinging her Chanel bag, Juicy Couture pants bulging at the seams. Her brows scrunched together. Her lips pinched. Suddenly her eyes lit up and her mouth morphed into a giant ‘O.’ “Your Mike!” she exclaimed. I shook my head in denial. “Don’t lie, Mike. I know who you are. You remember me, right? From the red house, remember?” My throat felt dry as I racked my brain for some fleeting memory of the pig squealing in front of me. 

Before I could react, she wrapped her pudgy little hands around my arm and dragged me up the sidewalk toward the center of the bridge. Cars zipped under us, as people in their separate bubbles rushed off to work. The pig loudly smacked her Pepto Bismal shaded lips and blinked twice. She then pushed her hips against mine and squeezed my torso with her free hoof. With her other hand she squealed into the phone. “It’s Mike,” she said. “Excuse me?” I said. “Mike” she said again. 

“My name is not Mike,” I said. She hung up the phone and crammed it into her shirt. “Your name is Mike and I know you. You love me, Mike. You always have. I knew it was you from the way you were staring at me over there.” 

“I am not Mike,” I said again. Only this time I said it in broken fragments of uncertainty. 

“You are Mike. You have always been Mike, and you love me. We have been looking for you honey. Then we gave up. But, I always knew you would come back. We were so worried.” 

“I- I am n-not Mi-”

“Then who are you?” She was staring ferociously into my eyes, grunting and snorting. “Who are you?” She said again. She pushed her blubbery body further onto mine, pressing me right up against the railing. “Who the shit are you, Mike?” 

I panted. I attempted to breathe, but she was smothering me. Her pink flesh was encasing my body. My back was bent awkwardly, my neck stretched through open air. I remained silent. I stayed still. I waited. We waited. She blinked twice again, and let a sizeable chunk of air out of her flared nostrils. Her palm lifted to eye level and then swept itself across my face, stinging my flesh. “I am tired of your shit, Mike,” she said, gripping her bag and adjusting her underwear to its proper position. With that, she sauntered back to wherever she came from; leaving me bent over, halfway on the bridge and halfway nowhere in particular.