doorway (113)

formed out of these walls to shape

the air to separate here from there

beneath the dark winter quilts

my skin presses to your warmth

longs to be more than my limits

more than what’s contained inside

more an opening to other spaces

other ways with different lines

to cross with a limping accent

a creole to hone words into an edge

I know only what I know

my cell wall’s textures memorized

through the season’s slow change

the light and shadow through the bars

play their fingers in the silent air

like puppets alive to the string’s pull

Flower as Metaphor



I am not a flower

about to bloom, nor

one whose petals have fallen.


I am not a flower,

nor is this poem

my prurient confession:


I am not a flower

worn like a corsage,

or draped on coffin tops.


I am not defined

like a bridal bouquet

for I am not a flower.


Flowers are more

than what they are;

I am only what I am.


(July 31, 2018)

Locked Doors

“it is precisely there where you are not”
–Roland Barthes
He said then she said
Interspersed and followed
By silence’s awkward
Focus where seconds
Transcribe alternative
Conversations behind
Walls manufactured
From imaginary sin
Until he or she speaks
Opening and closing
Doors as if hunting
For the something which
Would unlock the secret

Of their stale hearts
(June 12, 2017)