Above A Whisper

I walk on blades of grass
around my father’s grave,
avoiding sunken markers,
careful not to wake
the dead.

I want to say
I found a teaching job,
my own apartment,
a patient woman
who loves me
as I am.

But if such things
still happen,
they haven’t happened
to me.

When I tell him it’s spring
and Vegas likes our Cubs
to win the World Series,
my voice breaks like mist
above a whisper too soft
for sparrows perched
on marble headstones
to hear.

Too Much Information

I sleep too often
alone. I slip
into my sheets
like a knife inside
a sheath. I skin
my knees in falling
dreams.

I’m a freelance
night priest. I write nun
fiction books to fall
asleep. I trace
strongly worded
letters. I mark
typos on my toes
with red felt pens.

I fix comma
splices, I hate
comma splices more
than gondola rides
and square root
canals.

I sleep too often
alone with my phone
on gyrate slipping into
dreams like a knife
inside a sheath.

I wasted four years
in military art school
drawing blood baths
then reversed course
on my high horse mid-
stream of consciousness.

I’m so fucking
alone. I told a priest
my tongue is sharper
than a knife
between my teeth.

Either I

Stuck in the past, I go from happy to sad and back again in a flash. I feel too much, much too fast. I have poems to write but not enough rhyme.

Robert Frost is on my mind. There are two trains at my station but only one for me to ride. I can’t for the life of me decide between them side by side.

Beyond the blue horizon lies a sky within a sky. I can’t see myself on either train with either I.