top of page

On : A Comment You Made About Your Drive Home

I wear my sandals in winter.

I do this because I have never felt snow bite my feet.

Our homes are three hours from here in opposite directions.

We have met in the middle without our knowledge.

It means we are never too far from our mothers.

It means we know the smell of the air before rain.

It means you, too, have never seen snow.

I don’t know your sandal practices, 

I am afraid to see you in a place 

where we might both be wearing shoes.


You are a ghost until a home revives you.

What do you think of when you are invisible?

If you never answer, I can pretend you are thinking of me.

I am made manifest by the sun, 

I am warm enough for sandals in winter.

If I reached for you, would you be cold, 

or would my hands pass right through you?

I am scared to think of you, warm under my fingers.

I am afraid that you will wear sandals. 

Achilles Of The Long Road

I walk halfway up the long road. I stare up the other half, waiting.

I am, as ever, unjoined. 

My eyes keep reaching into that empty space, 

like, I’m sure my keys were in my pocket, but I put them in my bag at some point.

You aren’t in my bag, you just wouldn’t fit. 

I don armor before I go anywhere. 

You will not turn the corner onto the long road and find me wanting,

find any part of my body vulnerable to attack.

My eyes keep reaching into that empty space,

like, climbing downstairs blindfolded, stretching my leg for something like the ground

I know the next step will be there. 

But there is the swoop-in-chest

The wild, hopeful fear

That I will fall forever.

If I was always disappointed on the long road,

I would stop looking.

You, sadistic tactician, crush me with arrival.

Keep my eyes reaching into that empty space,

Like, sometimes there are quarters between the couch cushions.

There is mostly dust, 

But I am a martyr to the possibility of shine

bottom of page