Category Archives: poetry

Two Poems Published on 3AM Magazine!

Oh, I love 3AM Magazine! I remember a year ago I found their site and loved it. Now, I have the honor of being published there! Please check out

Two of my Poems on 3AM Magazine’s website.



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I didn’t know what to do with my body after being born,

so I sat with sadness, floating around in her bowl like that.

Can I touch you, I asked?


I did. I called you two minutes later,

after taking a bath,

after biting my wrist instead. You said,


I said, The sky! It’s wearing herself thin today.

You said, Should I send for flowers?

No. No. Just your voice takes me there.


You know, where I’m flying above a corn field,

touching the tips of things, imagining it’s your hair,

then my hair as a child,

and I love everything in pain and everything singing.

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You’re Afraid it Does

You’re afraid to touch me / No.

I want to hit you, but the Lord will

Deliver me. / From what? / Believing

The body pulls in light, it doesn’t,

No. / You’re afraid–it does.

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This is the Divine, Cezanne Would Agree

There was a tear on her side as she walked to the train station. Nothing seemed familiar, not even her hands, which gripped the straps of her purse as people rushed by. The three windows above her made her think of a cathedral.

I wish I were in my room, she thought.

But she just kept moving, bumped here and there by passerby.

Because someone sent her a message on her phone about God, she thought to kneel. Just Surrounded by hundreds of people pushing on and on into a black cloud, she imagined, of Otherness.

I wish I were in my room. The walls are white and the sound of wind through tress, comforting.

But she just kept moving. Bumped here and there by words, bodies, reaching architecture of buildings outside. Calling her immortal and mortal at the same time.

Tired, she leaned against the railing of one of the great staircases. Stones brought over from quarries carried by men and machine.

What was her body to do now? Her brain couldn’t conjure up an image or a word, or even the names of the constellations painted on the ceiling. Libra, Taurus. Cancer.

Get me out of here.

The tear on her side blossomed into branches, sprouted white-somethings.

Hands unrealized, body unheard of.

She read recently of a man who walked into a desert, though it was only his closet. And because he hadn’t eaten in three days, the sand formed between his toes. He didn’t answer his phone for 56 hours. Clothes became cacti and his heart found a sage tree on which to recite prayers. He carved letters there, stuck his shoes into a rockface and let God tell him whatever was on His mind.

I don’t exactly know what to believe, she mouthed, slid down the stone from quarries carried by men and machine, took out a piece of gum from her purse, chewed until her jaw hurt.

Once, she had a dream that she stood in this exact place and undressed. No one noticed. They rushed into the subway. And because no one noticed, she climbed to the top of one of the great staircases and jumped. The floor became an ocean and her body sunk into it as into a whale. Above, the ceiling still pained with constellations and the Zodiac. When people passed, they didn’t fall into water but kept moving, as though the ocean was only hers, and her body, a strange seaweed, tentacles twisted, liberated

The windows, three in a set against the other, seemed to understand. Because otherwise, what’s the language of thought but glass fish that can’t get through.

The man who stepped into a desert that was only his closet cursed episodes of forgetting where one was. And she cursed him for his ability to walk into a closet and imagine a desert. She didn’t have the willpower to not eat for three days. Perhaps this was the problem.

If under the skin a language could birth, then why the branches from her side with white-somethings, leaning?

She could only imagine the branches. Not the desert. And this depressed her.

The windows heavy as breath blanketed anger over her.

Because someone sent a message to her phone about God, she thought of kneeling. But she didn’t. And she regretted it.  Instead she bit her pointer finger just below the second bone until pain blossomed the white-somethings even further.

Dear Man Who Hasn’t Eaten in Three Days,

What is He saying to you? I’ve been waiting for hours in the train station for that kind of sex.

I don’t want to be, she thought, anywhere.

Besides, she mouthed, I have a tear in my side, no way to heal the unrealness of hands.


Now, back in the white-walled room, she understands the cage of canary-words. They feather her from desperation to resignation.

She writes:

It has rained all morning. I bought an apple to eat, but it keeps staring at me. I let it turn brown. My white-somethings push out my side.

I will hit myself three times in the chest. I will then contemplate jumping off a cliff. I always wonder, will I pass out before my body hits concrete?

Two hours later:

Got coffee at Dunkin Donuts. Sat in my car. Tried to meditate on the rain. Saw only randomness.

Last week, my mother told me the family had some sort of “plan” when I was younger. I was “so out there” they were afraid I might kill them. This could be the underlying root of why I don’t want to leave my room.


Dear Man in the Closet,

Are you able to abstain from food because you’re not a woman?

For example:

Last week, I read of an elderberry-tree that turned into a Mother. She took her revenge on a young woman’s throat.

The thought startled me into believing the way to God was through a woman, though I suppose she’d have to eat, in order to feed you.


I think when I was small, she thought, I had a tower inside me that was only reachable if I urinated on myself.

The difference is, Angels speak to the girl through the window, and only after she cuts herself free of any pain.


Man in the Closet, Contemplating Why the Cactus is Beautiful, but Untouchable—

He writes,

Haven’t eaten in days. The sand is almost-real. Beginning to hear the voice of God. She stands with ribbons in her hands at the window, makes me watch as she wraps them around her throat until it cuts through.

56 hours since I’ve checked my blackberry. This is a new record.

Two hours later:

For some reason, Love Me Do replays in my mind. I try to meditate on the desert before me, the small grouplings of cacti in the corner, but the words keep coming.

Sometimes, Muddy Waters talks to me. Little Girl, Little Girl gives me an erection. I don’t suppose this is normal for one in a closet, fasting.


I bought a blood orange instead, she wrote, because today, I have a feeling I’ll get something from You.


Dear Man Walking into a Desert that’s Only Your Closet,

I don’t want to be a woman. I don’t want the train station windows, jumping into the whale mouth.

She writes lists off the orange body

She writes to keep Georgian chants at bay

And whistles the thistle for its own sake

Stepping lightly over spilled letters

Such as: Don’t Tell Me, You’re Drinking—

Sage Root from Between Her Legs—

Again. She writes with her tongue

After a cut on the window. Cezanne,

She thinks, He would approve. So she paints

Donkeys hanging from a string, twisted open,

Braying “Everything! The Ritual of Our Body!”


Man, Closeted Three Oranges and a Blackberry Messenger Status:

If I eat myself from the outside in,

Perhaps I’ll beat the chest of her

Cacti. Last night, dreamed she

Stood atop an old cathedral,

Pissed herself, then jumped

Into a sea of donkeys, praying,

Take Us to Israel! Mouth of

Whale! Orange Peel, our sides

blossoming white-somethings–

Make the Unreal Hands, Real.

This is the Divine, Cezanne would agree: Woman Jumps Through A Cathedral Window To Taste a Blood-Orange, Rumored to be The Last Seed of Christ.

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Farmer Market Dream

Farmer’s market dream–

orange melon burrowed in someone’s

hands, yours–body

strangled in a choice between

licking you, eating a bee, or

touching myself and cursing–

did we ever meet?

I think I’ll buy this pumpkin.

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Silent Room

In the silent room, a door,

your diaries in a gutter or

in dumpsters. We keep words,

the other, asking the High, Why

are we here, who is my mother,

my daughter. I dream of cutting

open the stomach for food,

a few pieces of fruit, or

what  you thought when I was born.

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In This Building

On the train, I read the words:
In This Building, on the side
Of a wall I will never reach, I
Know how time loves me,
My body learns signs, I
Keep quiet when a man kisses me–

Last night someone let hands
Hover over his throat: the departed
Waited until I arrived, said:
In this body, I left canaries, tell them
You know how to listen: tell them,
Time loves to kiss everyone
Goodbye. What are we building
In our bodies–temples, wounds, words–

A few birds flew near the window
Alongside the train. Sunshine’s dress
On my legs. I let a man pass
Over me once, he said You are the land
I visited in a dream. No, not me,
I said, I’m building a temple for the dead

And when I leave, you will remember me
Like one remembers wind, swallows
In your hair. Tender-pain, the world.

I have this idea, my hand said–
What I don’t touch, what is unreachable,
Marries me in sleep. I have this idea,
The drunk boy on the train, screaming,
Fuck my exgirlfriend, fuck that bitch,
I’m so drunk! I’m so drunk–
He’s ringing his pain, saying,
In this building, I have bruises–
A wound, a swallow caught
In my throat. Don’t touch me.

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