Women were soil–
fertile ground without
power of creation.
But I’m tired of writing on women
and I’m tired of writing about you–
The poems, like you, come up short every time.

I should have known the cat would roll over
fleshy stomach up, full
breasts, only baby birds
falling from the nest
unparalleled. trauma: he was
gone the first time.
she found three parallel lines
colliding in the warm place
and said “stay.”
Marching on and around
walls that do not fall.
Do not talk to me about God
unless you see utter-up cats,
falling chicks, and 5-yr-old girls
coming to a canter in the field
as the reason for bloodied
knuckles and mythology.


I wrote this poem probably in the middle of Christian Ethics and I just found it in my notebook. I don’t like the title (“I do not know what it means to be a Christian”) and I don’t know if this poem is even about that anymore, but it was the sentiment that inspired this poem and so I’m keeping it as a placeholder for now.

It’s painful and uncomfortable to realize that you no longer know how to define the very thing you believe. All I know is that a lot of what I once associated with “Christian” no longer seems essential and while it isn’t fun, I believe this process is essential to breaking down illusions. While we question the definitions of that which we thought of as concrete, there will be fall out and we will make mistakes–but the life of faith is vast and adventurous.

Today my prayer is that the Lord may fill you with awareness that you are alive, and with the ability to recognize Christ in your sister and brother.


I sleep with fireflies


I know I will wake with winged
decay in white sheets,
but at night relentless
blinks remind me of
curbside bentgrass beds, of
10-cent lemonade stands, of
lamb’s ear.
At morning, I will sacrifice their wings
on the shrine of loneliness
for as bare feet on hot dust as
knees on pebble driveways as
palms sweaty from clasping too long
I fear that loneliness will come to say:
you were left
you are unseen
you are conquered.
But for now,
I am not lonely,
I sleep with fireflies.

(Someone told me yesterday that he likes my poetry. That’s the only reason I posted this poem. )

Continue reading “I sleep with fireflies”

I sleep with fireflies


unedited poem 17 

Please do not tell me
that you heard the way the geyser watched
his left hand rise and fall to the knee
attached to the
attached to the
(I kissed)
attached to the ground and not moving.

Please do not tell me
that you noticed the ceiling fan crying as his lips
the name that
was once mine
the song that
was never mine
the red lights flashing
melodies of vampiric
snow melting and
freezing and melting
and freezing fake
resurrections of blood baths.
and you walked.

stopped. then
turned around.
I’m still walking

because I’m waking to the thin bones
of friends gripping my
face and
I’m waking to the thin memories
of you stirring my
bones and
I’m still walking

away so please do not tell me
to come back.
You’ll have to pick up the pace.