I used to watch you dance with your family,
swaying with the sunflowers on bright, breezy days.
Some of you were yellow like sunshine, and others were white
like clouds. You looked like little fallen bits of sky
that seemed untouchable beyond the fence–
a line marking wild grass and rustling whispers,
a portal to your paradise.  

You left your paradise.
You must have wanted a change of pace.
You must have wanted to bring some sky to me,
because in that fleeting moment my father opened the back door–
so slight, a little slice of time–
you flitted inside
and glided straight for the warmth of the open oven.  

I could have carried you in my palms.
You were so small, so fragile, so beautiful–
pure white wings, withered into ash
and swallowed down a hot, black throat.
The path you flew left a lingering
trail that diffused throughout the kitchen.
The sunlight that poured inside
between the blinds illuminated the ghosts of your particles
with cold indifference,
particles that tasted bitter inside of my skull that was still
ringing and rattling with my father’s rancid laughter. 

He called you stupid.
I remember we were baking ribs that day
and how my own ribs felt sore.
I remember how they felt like a pathetic shelter for my heart
that was rapidly wilting within them and settling,
in my queasy stomach among unshed stone tears.
Lunch tasted like grey ash that afternoon.  

A childhood friend once told me
that white butterflies are the spirits of children.
I haven’t seen your family since.
I hope your wings were clipped,
your light snuffed,
before you even felt anything;
I hope your consciousness slid smoothly into sleep
with the ease of your waltzing entrance. 

Dear child, that day your soul was set free.
I only hope that you are at peace
as a cloud or as mist,
ever missed, in the midst of the sky–
a small sign from the heavens.

Paper Plates

I think we all were eager to leave
that soft blue house with its wind chimes swinging,
the oil-stained driveway,
the sugar tips that wept
pink every year as hummingbirds and ants played in their sweet petals.
When we left, I said goodbye
to the gentle blooming bush that stroked
my window every night.

In the backyard there were bluebonnets and mushrooms and a flat stone path leading
up to wide French doors that watched the dining room
like gaping eyes, watching

all of my worst memories,
pushed into the back of my mind like the putrid dishes we all ignored.

Writer’s Block

I try
to write,
but all of my words are knotted up inside of me and I can’t untangle them.


My anger is a knot and my loss is a knot and my memories are knots, knots, knots.
I remember you and I remember how I felt
but I can’t tie that together.

I feel my bloodstream, neurons, bones and veins, but my words stop
breathing somewhere between my brain and my heart.


Out of everything in this room, this piece spoke to me.

It was big enough to have a wall of its own.

It seemed to be suspended in time so gracefully, forever capturing the beautiful aftermath of creation. Something about its size and its simplicity and the way the colors were almost iridescent really resonated with me.

But of course, I was so caught up in my admiration that I forgot to check its name or artist. 😦

Dallas Museum of Art, March 2017.