O sister on the other side
of the mirror, all sass and vinegar.  
Galaxy of lace and petticoats 
and pretty things swept under 
the radar.  You are a vintage 
ditty, hiding some unhinged woman—
All of her broken intent snapped into 
our mother’s satin purse.  Imagine a word 
before it was born—yolk of doc. 
Imagine musical notes on a staff 
being crushed into a pile of dirt.  
Your head is a lunch counter, 
too many mouths talking at once.  
Here’s the thing, you can be eaten 
alive by anything. The record player 

More In: poetry

The Night Moving

How does the night move?
There must be a moment
when it moves over your body.
You are half night, half day then,
you are a sister to the moon,

The Santa Anas


from here the earth
is a shade of the darkest
blue before black

i look out the window
and i know where we are

where the desert looks
like the ocean at …

Regarding the Man With the Stolen Past

Imagine a novel about a man who
never knew his early years; it comes across as

a fictionalized story that nevertheless feels overwhelming
in the rich particularity of his life, …

In the Trees, On the Road, Off the Highway

Firecracker in hand, matchbook
encased in the fist of my heart,
a burning car roadside and footprints
leaving soot in a Rorschach parade.

Wearing a blanket of leaves,
dark green folds …

I Brought Mountains with Me to Iowa

but only I could see them.
Others saw a bank of clouds
on the horizon, potential rain. I saw
the Cascade Range,
my mother’s face
face toward them, lit
by …