Night Song

I’m standing on top of this mountain, and I don’t know how
I got here.
Where I am has always been a mystery to me.
And it’s not the kind of mystery that turns into a novel; my life
story has been anything but literary. These gentle bones
sway in the midnight breeze and shimmer under stars
I’ve never seen before. They are unfamiliar.

Where are you?
Where you are has always been quiet.
Cedar doesn’t smell the way it used to, and pine
never looked so dull as it does tonight.
Tell me I’m doing something right.
I need your permission to howl under an estranged
moon. You are my estranged moon.
You are the protagonist to this story I forgot
how to read.

Some nights I lie awake and wonder where the wonder has gone.
It’s not in you and certainly is not within
me. We are both different now.
You are the light in the night sky;
I, the call answered in dim forest.
We are the stories still going, the wolves at the head
of the pack.
You keep me turning pages.


Organised Affection

It’s funny how we blame beauty on “good genes”,

spend $198 on a stupid pair of pants.

We lay awake at night

five inches from his comatose

bones thinking how we’d rather be breathing in the weight

of her troubled mind, but she always reeked

of good intentions.

We settle for him because the way our DNA intertwines

makes the nostalgia disappear.


We seek approval from our estranged parents

only to find they never knew us at all.

Recitals, graduation, birthdays attended by

a couple of victims on a string,

circulation cut off by the adoration of bruised children.


To say we’re sorry only minimizes the hurt. We

write an open letter to the world, how we need

love. We search for and lean

on tables or people or whatever will hold us.

Her mind set free like a canary in a cage with

arms like wings, held high.