My poem, “Keriah,” featured on The Blue Hour Magazine. Thank you, Susie and Moriah!
There are mornings
whose blues are unspeakable,
whose yellows are far too dandelion
to dilute under sun.
You should have died in November.
I could count you in raw clouds,
reflected in reds rotting to brown.
I could paint all color siphoned to straw,
brighten it with blood kissed from my fingers
caught on the skeletons of roses.
But there is room for loss
even in blooming. I can mourn
you vineless, thornless,
worn open as the hole I tear
over my chest, where my heart was.