Sample poems.
I’d rather be influenced
to send more postcards.
To kiss with more tongue
and let cantaloupe juice
run all the way down
to my elbows. I’d rather
be influenced to cook
more quiche and make cold brew
at home. To wake up early and stay
in bed. To be better at remembering
my friends’ birthdays.
To vote early. I want an algorithm
that worships heirloom tomatoes.
The sound of that one summer
cricket outside my window.
Peach sorbet with tiny spoons.
The way the mountains go copper at dusk.
The chatter of your dog laughing
in a dream across the room.
Selected by James Crews for The Sunday Poem in Gwarlingo; 2022
“How to Talk About It”
Originally published in The Standard-Examiner & QSaltLake
Salt Lake City Poem
After Terrance Hayes
In Salt Lake City from a mountaintop
one can see angels blowing air
and a building trying to pop the sagging sky.
A line of worker bees working
along the crumbling freeway, feeding grey
to the underbelly of the clouds
and wondering why their kids cough so much at recess.
There is a boy in a man’s suit asking me—
telling me about his god,
my God; how we’re both so similar.
There’s a hairy-legged man in a tight sequin dress
and I stare at him in the elevator because butterflies
are rare in beehives. From a mountaintop
in Salt Lake City, someone says My God,
pictures could never do it justice. I agree
and wonder why they try anyway. My God,
I am so fucking pretentious. I try to take a picture, too.
The Bad Kids with glitter on
their eyelids skipping and stumbling home
from the club. Last call for any butterflies
who didn’t find a honey. For any boy
in a big man suit, who Googles tying ties
and tries praying out the honey, seeing
glitter when his eyes are shut or in the back
of his throat when he’s cleaning his tongue.
When the bees hatch the city buzzes with
babies in chevron bibs who cough on the sacred
mall’s escalators. I watch through hazy lenses
from a mountaintop drinking nectar with friends.
This is how I think of Salt Lake City—
someone craving nectar
but regurgitating honey.
Originally published in “Butterflies are Rare in Beehives,” || Glass Spider Publishing; 2017
If the world is ending
I’ll be in the backyard
collecting the eggs from the coop.
Smelling and then showering the rage-red
strawberries almost ripe enough
to eat. I’ll be dipping my knees into the soil
while I tug up weeds. This is purer
than prayer. If the world is ending,
come ‘round back. The gate is open.
The lavender is shaking its small fragrant fists
by the thousands. The honey locust tree
is pulsing electric with a riot of bees. The air
is thick with early summer and bloom. It’s quiet
enough. And hey, the copper-black hen just laid
her first egg—the color of Mars and tiger’s eye.
It’s yours if you want it.
“If the world is ending” || cityhomeCOLLECTIVE, House Calls; 2022
