a smattering of words

21 Mar, 2026

every year at the end of rainy season, i'll hunker down and churn out at least one poem just for me; they're all over the place, and now i've decided they live here! ¹

2022

from the clouds burst forth
sweet rice flour and rain

or warm sun, or still light, or faint wind.
shall we press down on the old tiles
trek up the mountain, or grin with our cheeks?
should we take the bridge down
the river a little ways south of the road home
sit by the water, or sing with our teeth?
from the early morning burst forth
another whiff of pork bun, one more
serving of hot jasmine tea
we’ve got time for one more detour,
space for one more bite to eat!

good night, tiny god

tell me a bedtime story.
tell me how you came back from the dead
how you spun your body back together—
quiet as a mouse, lithe as a marten
whole once more. what was it like;
when you reached into the cleaved-open shell of your left atrium and
prayed to touch again, who did you bargain with first?
sing me a song about what you left buried in the earth.
turn it into music proper for a party
so we can dance— to the next year!
and the next year! and the year after that!

good night, tiny god
in the morning there will be fruit
just for tonight, tiny god
we’ll celebrate you

2023

epoxy on the dancefloor
(or, how to tell a story as old as the nineteen hundred thousand something or other footprints in the boxing room.)

one.
we’re at a party at the tail end of another party. we’re crammed into a corner booth. in somebody else’s photograph, our shoulders brush at the blurred edges of a bar.

two.
i throw a long-dead version of myself onto the altar of back-alley haunts and offer her ankles up to the god of seafood paella. i pick another thread loose from vesper-kissed carpeting. in exchange, i get to be an island under your shoe. one touch and go. we’re in a ballroom this time, running instead of gliding. a worthy distraction. i hate to stand next to you.

three.
i take you for a pacifist at heart; what business do you have ringside? i know you live between venus (for you are love and beauty embodied) and the moon (for i see myself most clearly in your shadow). when i find out you can be vicious light spills over your shoulder like a flurry of shaved stardust. white, hot, blue. this is the first time i’m looking at you, i’m sure of it.

four.
and now, a brief scene from the moon landing:

sand. dust. dead rocks. craters. deep, unforgiving craters. salt in the wound. maria by the faultlines. basalt as far as the eye can see. two ferrymen for the bodies stumbling into the bathroom sick with both palms on their knees. here i am again, thinking i must be holding lady luck up by the shoulders, her ankle-straps cut between my teeth.

five.
i could set the entire room on fire to get home early. feign illness, start a fight, or admit dizzy. alternatively: i could ask you to dance with me.

six.
funny, how one small step is all it takes to lead.

seven.
for all my faults, i do the math quickly. another one bites the dust, and– yours, i think. right. this one’s all yours. what a relief.

to glide across the open water

i wish for gentleness, awash in orange light. letters of love for seasons of sickness. for burns to heal and ribbons tied like birds in flight. i wish for red shoes and buck-toothed smiles. for time immemorial, and nothing forgotten. not your words nor the kindness with which you speak them. for simple dreams fulfilled; no partings be final. for tiny, invisible wings bestowed by autumn’s wind. feathers soft as the pads of your fingers, a song for every leap of faith. for hands to find each other in the cold, and laughter caught in verdant abundance. for our stories kept sacred, and our adoration held firm.

to glide across the open water— i wish for ever-bright passage, and many safe spirited returns.

2024

you can do it

tie your shoelaces, both ways. / ask questions. even the ones that scare you. / stay friends. / ignore the screaming. / be stubborn. / say yes. / visit the beach. / lift ten pounds, then twenty. / dream small. / get hurt. / fail. / pass. / flunk class. / jump a hurdle. / break a leg. / light a fire, put it out. / stand your ground. / lose, badly. / shake hands. / smile for the cameras. / worry mom. / say no. / bleed. / go further. / make the time. / mourn for all you’ve given up on. / live a long life. / fly free. / start a karaoke party. / fell giants. / dance in hell. / fall in love. / become whole. / butt heads. / stumble in the rain. / crack a grin. / land a joke. / share a meal. / say thank you, i’m sorry. / show some respect. / take one extra step. / win, with help. / forgo forgiveness. / desire destruction. / come home. / lend a hand, or a shoulder. / nurse a scar. / stoke the embers. / let them go. / pay it forward. / grasp tighter. / run faster. / change, dammit. / keep going. / keep going.

2025

where memory goes, / our footsteps follow. / simpler paths might be carved / but i like this one / where a name is all it takes / to summon great loves / through darkness, / chasms of time, / and sundry, / unfaded hurts. / stumbling in the night / is only scary / when we aren’t laughing— / our voices like lanterns afloat / on rippling water. / so, / where to next? / if i could / i’d take us to live / in summer forever / was it happy? / i didn’t go to ballet / or taekwondo / but learnt to walk / barefoot / and leap in one / two / three breaths / like everybody else. / was it good? / the trees were sparse, / the air dry, / and i wept like a newborn / reaching for a height i didn’t have / but got on a bike / before i knew better: / spun the pedals / like someone could run / fast enough to keep hold. / was it fun? / i scraped my knees on gravel, / i cut open my thumb. / i came home / and you weren’t there. / i built / a time machine— / but never thought to use it. / i thought about running / but could never leave you behind. / so let go. / let’s go.

028: happy world poetry day!