Scones

somewhere your hands are in dough infused with cinnamon

chocolate shavings and dried cranberries     you knead & roll

this sticky firm mass on a flour-coated board as if forming a fist    

but there is no violence in this process only tenderness

like an infant’s back lifted upward in one motion once satisfied

you tear off pieces with a light squeeze & mold them into balls

placing each one on a buttered baking sheet to rise

i taste what you have made     my bitter-sweet tongue wanting

to become like dough once in your hands crafted into something

worthy of love not what is before me now a plate of chocolate

streaks cranberries & crumbs i leave the dish uncleaned for days

unable to scrub evidence of you & your tender labor


Love: An Education

Gathered with sibling and parents

at the dinner table, I watch

my father’s long, mahogany arm

stretch over to my mother, seated

at his side, and knead her neck

like dough, teaching me a lesson:

sometimes keeping two souls tied

does not require words.

My History with Language

On Giving Thanks

On Giving Thanks

Foundling

Blog Post 3

This poem was originally published in Issue 19 of Fathom Magazine.

What Anxiety tells me

Copy of Copy of Gift

Concerning Hope

 

Copy of Copy of Gift (1)

Carpe Diem

–For Anthony Bourdain

Though part of memay be breaking,I consider dayanother mercy.Night lurks so near,its call to silence unrelenting. I seize each dawning as respite, as the offeringof an unearned gift2

Surrender

Surrender v. 2

Housework

House Cleaning