For my daughter

Robb Elementary School

America loves her children.

she nurtured them so they did grow.

and kisses their head before

tucking them in as she dreams

of the things they will do.

America loves her children

she cradles them tight to her chest

and swears to defend again

each bitter word. They are perfect

in all that they do.

America loves her children

but they are just so hungry for food

so the school remained closed as

the blood is scrubbed up. And there are graves

that need to be dug.

The pumpkin patch

She felt the chill

alone breeze A week ago, the shades

oranges so bright in the sun.

but as she blinked from the pain,

as the pink hues,

night peaking against the murky

ground. she wondered how many

had been picked just to rot

In the winter sun.

Day Three: Hands

Day three of national poetry month.

Ghosts

This poem was written in response to the prompt of Ghost. I want to play on the idea that our most intimates part of ourselves can be easily coopted.

After the party

For the second day of poetry month. I am uploading a piece I wrote in response to the prompt “haunted party.” I hope you enjoy.

poetry: Sunday doodling

Someday: a found poem

Poetry: Earthquake

sometimes the words don’t come from you, but they flow from others

Found poetry: untitled

Whenever I’m in a slump, I grab a book that’s bound from the trash and try to make something new.

Whisperings

Tell me that forever didn’t pass us yesterday in a beat up Suburban with a bleach blonde soccer mom at the wheel. Tell me I’m not weak for calling you. Tell me you didn’t notice the hack job they’ve done to my hair. Tell me your phone’s been out of service for the past week. Tell me I’m prettier. Tell me you’ve noticed the way your hand fits into mine. Tell me I’m not your servant. Tell me I’m not imagining all this. Tell me the sun won’t rise. Tell me you hate subjunctive sentences. Tell me you hear me. Tell me I’m crazy. Tell me to run. Tell me to burn your pictures. Tell me running wouldn’t do me any good. Tell me that you don’t think I’m as crazy as my grandmother who thought my aunt was a robot. Tell me you’d get into a car with me and drive until we ran out of gas in a ghost town. Tell me to forget you and walk away. Tell me actions speak louder than words. Tell me you can conceive. Tell me one day it will change. Tell me those things you said weren’t true. Tell me one day it will be the same. Tell me words speak louder than actions. Tell me I’m not a robot.