Poetry

The Mechanics of Regret

Previously published in Button Eye Review.

 

My grandma often hinged at her hips

trying to relieve a hunched spine

and generations of rue.

She would unfold all the way back

to her native tongue

slip in a foreign word to ensure

I felt the weight of her conscience.

 

Fylleangst. The Norwegian term

for the fear and anxiety one feels

when trying to recall their actions

the day after being blackout drunk.

But she wasn’t referring to one hangover

she encompassed a lifetime.

 

During the Second World War

she was a teen caught in a tryst

with a German soldier

who had invaded her homeland…

even after all these years

she could never confess all the way.

I only know how the story ends

with sparse details on how it began.

 

Antique skeletons are still skeletons

that take up space in a closet

or a body, she often said. 

I’m not the type to expose shortcomings

but I will mention, by that point

her frame was tiny, all bone

existing just beneath paper thin skin.

Lucid

Previously published in Shot Glass Journal.

 

I’m trapped in a phonebooth attempting a call

to a past life, circa nineteen-ninety-two.

I try to connect with my mother

to distract her from repeating the same mistakes.

In this recurring dream the receiver is silent.

The only sound is the moon as it wobbles

and scrapes across the atmosphere.

But the call never gets through, my words

caged within the mouthpiece seep out like a kink

that should’ve stayed fastened to the background.

I vacate the booth and continue creating demons

to use as alibis for crimes I have yet to commit.

Orbits

Previously published in Maya's Micros.

 

In moments of nervousness

when every approaching minute

is an unknown consequence

I’m certain the beating of my heart

can be heard around the world

as muted thuds travel through me

and nudge the earth off its orbit.

 

Tell me I’m being overdramatic  

and that a single heartbeat

could never be felt by someone

on a different continent.

But think of me when the sound

of a faucet drip has wormed its way

into your mind and the actual leak

is nowhere to be found.