Tell Me A Story

we tried to tell each other I’m afraid of this desire it gets worse every time I see you hopeful for what I wonder because your tongue in my mouth means we’re progressing towards a goal I heart writing poems to you even though fucking in poems is good sometimes my heart is involved which makes fucking beautiful in the moonlight there is silence the strewn manuscript of you #poetry #love #telepathy #nyucwp #nyu #2017 #poetryfinalist #shortlist #canada #donttalktomeaboutl

I want to crack an egg on your ass, fix your chipped nail polish, read those poems you never finished, even the ones that aren’t about me. See, I’m not selfish. I can be vulnerable, just don’t get up and go. Like, we could have three dogs in case one dies in the future and we won’t be lonely or I won’t because you might leave me. I don’t blame you for downgrading, for simplicity. At this age, I really should have it together. When I walk the neighborhood, I think the flowers

In a private room, a woman works tirelessly, altering damaged clothing. There are pants for a man who wants to hide scars, a vest for a girl who needs to feel safe, a wool cape to swoop over the shoulders of one who carries the weight. I enter the room and notice the woman is held together with safety pins and tiny fibers that have attached to her skin and look like glue. There are small lines that look like stitches that hold her dress to her body. She looks at me and the sc

I gesture and you nod. I say pen and you say no, thank you. I want to talk but watch your edges crackle when I say company and soften when my voice stays too long on the eee. You say rice milk and nutrition, and I say something that sounds like more. You set down boxes, and ask me to pour myself a bowl to discuss the merits of bran versus flax. Your eyes widen and relax with your coffee. I see how nervous you get when I start breathing the air that’s arguably yours. The telev

Pick an hour of the day, either at the beginning or end, and write down that hour on a sheet of paper. This paper should be folded and put into your pocket. Before you do that recall a place on your body where you had a bruise. The kind that changed colors. Write the place on the body on this sheet of paper. Think about a rainbow for at least sixty seconds. Next remember a time that your heart felt blue. Write on the same sheet of paper what or who made you feel this pain. Si

She says yes sometimes when she wants to say no but you hope that this isn't one of those times. It's cold outside and she has goose bumps on her arms. Out of the corner of your eye you notice how she wears purple and beige and black all at once. You don't know anyone who can do that and not look like a bruise. Her shirt fabric is always silky and forward. She makes it look effortless except for that second where she adjusts her necklace, holding it to her chest. You sigh bec

A bird doesn't say you know that and I never told you. You must know by now. I have tried quiet smiles. I wish I told you but. You know what happens when it happens. It happens like this. It is almost that. It is real when you wear denim. I am sitting with words, screaming truths behind red lips. I am in a chair. I am telling you answers, just not in the way you want them. You are overthinking it. You are good at that and I like it and dislike it. Those thoughts are what I'm

Facts are facts and we see them on paper. When we turn the pages, we know it's the right thing to do. In the advertisement one handle of a toothbrush lasts a lifetime, but brush your teeth of their tartar and re-enamel the handle. Today is ready for a change of weather, but not so excited for the ___________. There is no meter to measure difficulties and simplicity but we'll opt for the latter. We are linked by buckles on belts, fed through denim loops and cinched in feelings

She is covered in green and yellow patches, bruised from the weight of words. They emerge in fragments and phrases and cover her body. When they find their way to the surface, you witness affliction in action. Every sentence leaves your mouth and finds its way under her skin. Standing in the middle of wooden bookcases and those waiting for a spectacle, she reveals words that travel the length of her arm from underneath frilly wrist ruffles. As you read aloud to no one in part

You waved a degree well above her yard-stick, knowing how to connect dots sans yellow number two, as if you'd channeled her thoughts without thieving or scheming, where a bittersweet victory ensued. You were here--just one last hurrah. A clock ticked toward the final minutes of shared injuries as she quietly lead you back to task. Fingers crossed she made room in a heart because you tell yourself you don't need to know but you do until you don't. Accessorized with a bent halo

1. No accidents 2. No alcohol 3. No asking 4. No bonding 5. No commiserating 6. No details 7. No difference 8. No flexibility 9. No gifts 10. No history 11. No knowing 12. No knowledge 13. No leaning 14. No love 15. No luck 16. No needing 17. No past 18. No perfect 19. No picking 20. No please 21. No prying 22. No regression 23. No reward 24. No shabbat 25. No sharing 26. No static 27. No texting 28. No waiting 29. No want 30. No winning 30. No wish 31. No wonder 32. No words

I subtracted truth to found eyes, blurred, or blurry, a feigned protest. A sum. Skin covered in fever, she says she’ll wear that or ink, if you’re really blue. That’s what mourners do. When it breaks, you’ll see how perfect it looks in the light. Abstraction unfolds. The iris transparent. Dreams well up and eye risk. A way of thinking in our hemispheric planes. Holding trust inside, you can lumber around the eight ball. Fashion me a sight, not past or present. Proclaim nothin

4 ème- She sat on the steps to Agudath Hakehilot in the Marais. I was coming to meet her for lunch and she waved with her black mittens when she saw me round the corner off Rue des Rosiers. It’s unseasonably cold for January and she told me she’s sweating on the inside. We discussed where we should eat and she tapped her toe to the sound of woodwind instruments. There is a parade nearby and we cannot hear each other speaking. I leaned my head against hers so I could arrange t

If I tell you how I know you, then you’d know all about chalk and stone walls and what this story looks like from the ground up. You might laugh like I’m full of it or think that I dreamt some crazy story about the way we connect in lines and waves and you’d be partially right. This is a real dream, not the kind you have when you stare too long at the milk in the bottom of your cereal bowl or that shimmering spot in the road up ahead. No, this one doesn’t have missing sequenc

impermanence all around you say like you’ve bought a round of drinks for friends at a party in your honor. Connect the new faces at dinner with insecurity and unrehearsed prayers, chanted quietly in mixed verse. Thirty six is the number of years you’ve traversed roads that ultimately end in a series of sloppy victories headed towards the drain of success and nerdy black eyeglasses that keep you there amongst the bottom-dwellers. I damage the image belle of the isle now flitti

1. she was always caught in the shutterbug’s spherical aberration. She emerged from its clutches a flawed subject. Blood pulsing through her veins distracted you from the reality of her pale skin tone, her fading smile. Over-exposure never helps one to conquer the hard edges. She’s blurry and fragile without the liquid serum that exists only in your hidden crevices. 2. She salvages domestic energy. It allows for lingerie to leap onto the floor with strangers. Lying in old she

i hear clanging in my ear failing ding me, claim me it’s seize the space I’m in I say hide with crickets in thickets I say zest your fancy dishes with all things orange and the rubbery lovechild produced as a result of the kerfuffle with steel and dairy products you listen to thunderous clouds if I am sitting Shiva if you are salty tears drown out the droning of the deep resounding emptiness a half-hearted heart cured if alcohol yelled quietly amongst its peers if gifts and n

The Canadian website, Don’t Talk to Me About Love published two of my poems: “Feedback of Desire” & “I Sent You A Telepathic Message, Did You Get It?” You can discover/read them here. Feedback of Desire I want to crack an egg on your ass, fix your chipped nail polish, read those poems you never finished, even the ones that aren’t about me. See, I’m not selfish. I can be vulnerable, just don’t get up and go. Like, we could have three dogs in case one dies in the future and we