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.