original poetry

It Keeps Spilling Everywhere

I don’t know where to put all my

Affection I can’t contain, it routinely


Overflows and spills out the tops of my pockets,

Rolls in smooth droplets and

Springs off my tongue before I can close my lips,

Pulls my eyes wide open and fills them with light,


Brings a warmth to my chest and hands and lungs that

Makes each breath feel more singular,

More deliberate,

Infused with extra oxygen, extra nourishing,

Can’t help but be gasped and held.



I do not worry that I will

Creak the heavy vault door open at the end of my life

And find nothing there.


Instead, I worry that I’ll twist the heavy knob to reveal

Piles of riches that I no longer have time

To give away.

In Any Spare Second

Written on the back of a napkin with pen pulled from a purse,

Dents and punctures in the pressed plush of the paper,


Sketched on the back of the notepad by the cash register,

Pen drops from fingers as a customer comes,


Tapped as a rhythm on the taut leg of the jeans

Once the keys have found the pocket, as the feet cross the street,


Hummed at the stoplight,

Drawn on the back of the hand,

Drawn on the back of the newspaper,

Drawn in a margin,

Drawn on the notebook’s muted brown flipside,

Drawn in the seventh hour

Out of eight in the shift when the feet are sore and the task feels meaningless and every task feels meaningless and exhaustion is two warm dry foreign fingers lowering your eyelids against your will.


Outlined on the back of a receipt.

Scarred by a jagged scribble when the bus rolls over a bump.


Folded, and slipped into a pocket.



Unfolded, smooth, pen-lines like a blueprint.

Audible, visible—

The click of a pen. Its tip glints in the light.