as April ends, aftershocks

In Nepal, they are dead by the thousands,
yet at night, in the epic tragedy of our bed,
they are hardly spared a thought as we fight
for the happiness so long missed. I wanted
this to be an easy poem to write: all sweeping
sentiment and unfolded perspective, laundry
tossed on the couch and handily sorted.
I, after all, have no burials to plan, no body to bear.
Survival is too far a concept to be bought dear,
though, and I am left with this landslide
of vague loneliness, wishing only for you
to hold me, for a kindness, for a plane ticket
to Katmandu. There are all kinds of earthquakes,
love; some nearer home than others.

difference of opinion

it’s been said
in more languages than i
can speak fluidly
that i am not quite…
that i drown
in the things
others drink to
forget about
but if
they had seen
unstigmatized the light
in these eyes they
might think differently if
they had read the
hurt between my lines i
wouldn’t have had to
spell it out
in broken glass if
they had listened
when i said i
think i’m dying there’d
have been no need
to call the paramedics but
me i don’t think
feeling is a thing
to be floodwalled
think “they”
is just an ugly


watching the dawn
drag itself up out of this
utter east from my
hotel window, i
open my eyes to
the truth that though
my skin and soul are
across the world
from the ring of barbed wire
strangling the hollow
inside my chest,
my demons are
no farther