Latest Works

wisps of my mother’s Latin  haunt my head while  my fingers caress the water’s surface and I cross myself  In the name of the Father, the...

“Why is this night different from all other nights?” – From the Passover Seder Here I lie, chad gadya on my hospital bed counting my...

I hated so much in my life and still became something beautiful when I died. Here, slotted in the rock, I flow out. I’ll erode what’s...

Numb and in a quandary—  Dazed, disengaged, stymied.  Here is your birth chart,  which I have calculated  and drawn by hand.  I deliver...

The altar here is a bait box on a cold deck. The wharf is  our pilgrimage road. We worship ships lost at sea and the children who grow up...

Where will you find another  Garden now the storm falls  in folds of black crepe, bars  of the wicket door are closed  with a padlock,...

what writes itself on the surface of the stream  reveals its lungs in concentric circles  to me tethered to the bank  as pale gold leaves...

I  He shows me his hands,  calloused from work.  I look past their roughness  and see  his mound of Venus  protruding from the thumb....

goodbye, Grandma said  in Mandarin  not a language she knows.  one she learned for me  who left home  and her garden unattended  one she...

Thou anointest my cornbread with honey.  My sweet iced tea overflows.  Though there may be tough rows to hoe, Goodness, grace, and mercy ...

I only ever see the moon in the morning early— before you’re awake— as birdsong first trills from hallowed branches to welcome the...

At a lancet looking out  on empty hills and dark forests, Carpathians  hulking against the horizon like titans,  he watches for other...

Last night beneath my blankets, I lay still. I dreamt the moon had fled from winter’s wind. Boreas slung his cape across the skies and...

cough in your throat, snake in the woodpile, outside, the poets remember too loudly— quiet, please, time is passing. every morning cracks...

The moon casts her milky drape  over stoney gardens—shadowed with crosses stretching the grass. My blistered tongue whispers,  entreats...

I live in the house my grandfather built when he was young and strong, and filled with love and dreams. Where I lay me down to sleep was...

We come to it After a walk Through a field Late afternoon Shadows closing in Sunlight already golden. Old tree, Its beard scraggly...

there is more than one way to look at it.  outside the wood gift shop there is the desert, the gray hill  but the scrub shivers like...

Perhaps they too were lonely, Not among themselves so much As among their own kind. Loneliness was a hand reaching Through the darkness...

such delightful isolation surrounding  as my mind opens up  like a gentle stab velvet car crash chewing on knives  and I’m speechless...