because while some truths lend themselves to equations, others are best described in verse

Author Archive

If poems were fortune cookies

You’ll be better off, they’d say: a room of your own in bed,
even listening for the phone, crumbling cheetohs alone in bed.

Stickily I finger—no one’s home– the remote again,
mirror’s hard lessons lessened by what’s overthrown in bed.

Each season leaves dimpled bruises like Daphne’s flesh,
more pillows mounded like silicone in bed.

The morning sky blushes remembering
all the lands we discovered, places we’d flown in bed.

Tattooed arm slung snoring over rounded hip—
look how softly we’ve grown in bed.

Hands held across shattered glass table,
night’s fight shoved under by what’s still sown in bed.

To hell with what we were taught about hospital corners,
restless feet lash in misery—covers blown in bed.

Open-windowed sirens go wailing unheeded;
day’s guilt a deadweight sunk like stone in bed.

When you close your eyes, doctor,
what sins do you atone in bed?

(When you close your eyes, doctor,
what sins do you condone in bed?)


Warning– This Is Not A Poem…

Announcing DISSECTIONS,

my first chapbook!

Lee_Joanna_cov

Forthcoming from Finishing Line Press this summer!

Available for pre-order now (ships June 23). Reserve your copy  and you’ll be a part of the book’s future–advance sales help determine press run. Or click here if you’d like to keep up with signings, launch news and other poet-ish shenanigans via my monthly author newsletter. Let’s raise a glass in virtual celebration together!


Normal rhythms

If you listen, you can feel
the fat whoosh pounding
beneath fingertips, the ready warmth
of rush-of-red head-
ward from heart: not
ruby-red or glitter-red
like Dorothy’s slippers
but still magic, the way
the machine putters on,
isn’t it? How I can put pen
to paper or make love
with my thumbs by typing
less than 3 or wink or walk
away

while under it all
I am filled
with the smell of rust, bloodstink,
someone said, like old traintracks
sunk in summer mud,
persistent as hell, as sin; copper-
tinged bleeps on a blank screen :
alphabet soup : pee-kew-ar-ess, an iron-
y bulge-thump of muscle: lub-
dup like the one-legged steps
of my father’s crutches, how
it has nothing to do with love,
after all, and everything, lub-dup,
lub-dup, lub-dup unremarkable
until it is not.