POEMS

  • To the feline prowess of my former self, your ballerina back, your lithe limbs that stalked my bare reflection: I cowered at the foot 

    of your legacy, trembling like a golden leaf at all that had fallen beyond my reach. I searched the slack wreck of skin that had cracked

    into scars stretching the width of a doorway to accommodate not one but two. The sales lady hung a bigger size over the door and chimed, 

    “See how that one feels.” You crouched close as I examined eyes underlined by black smudges and eternal vigilance: the cross

    my mother wore around my neck. You circled me, your frame gliding effortlessly while I wailed silently, the used-up puddle of skin cupped 

    in my hands. You’d never held a world in your arms, never fallen into love so clear and pure, never known the gift wrapped in flames 

    on the altar. But there I was, bankrupt of your beauty’s high currency, emptied out in a dressing room, shaking while trying on Spanx.

    “How are you doing in there?” she rang. “Fine,” I managed, but she must’ve known that no one who shopped there was fine. 

    I stretched the unyielding nylon over your melted down trophy, compressing the mess. I waited until I was driving home to scream 

    like an ambulance through the streets. But there they were, waiting at the window, beaming at the sight of my face. They love to touch 

    my belly, lay a cheek on their first home, squish the purply marks like modeling clay and ask why it’s so soft. I’ve learned to answer, 

    “Because it was so strong.” What is a stretchmark if not a refusal to break? And then a day came when I realized suddenly what had happened 

    gradually: my needs had stretched to accommodate their breath and song. Now here we are, spinning like a carnival ride; my oak back 

    and iron arms suspend them in whorls of golden laughter. Their eyes reflect me: I am radiant, smiling with unspeakable joy, no longer moaning 

    like a domestic stray that doesn’t know the scars across her mouth spell love. And there you are, quietly, laying yourself down at my feet. 












  • Countless migratory birds cruise into the Florida sun, weaving a whimsical canopy above as I plunge

    into a cool shock of blue; I shoot through soothing resistance, trailing roaring ripples, and dive under to find myself

    surrounded by ribbons of refracted light, hundreds of rainbows pulsing along the underwater walls. I release an endless

    exhale, sending a dream of fingertips to brush playfully over my cheeks. I turn to rest, to drift on the quiet surface;

    sun soaks my boundaryless skin; the flag draws me into its undulations; my name floats among feathers

    riding soft thermal currents. I am weightless, wrapped in silk, and burdens have no bones to carry them.

    Soon I will emerge. Heavy feet will mark their temporary outlines across the cement. Countless pixels glowing in liquid crystal

    will hook the eyes and drag it all down. Skin like iron, I will burn with infinite impulses until the flight of birds breaks into my chest,

    tracing patterns on my tongue, as I plunge once more into wonder.







  • What kind of king bends to the ground
    To take our filth into his hands,
    And kneeling as a servant, pours
    Himself for that which love commands?

    What kind of king trades royal robes
    For a towel, a slave’s apron,
    And with the hands that formed the world
    Lifts worn soles into the basin?

    What kind of king whose knowing eyes
    Behold the one whose heart betrays
    And yet still washes feet that run
    To usher in our dark disgrace?

    What kind of king leads the battle 
    In a posture of surrender? 
    Whose power incorruptible 
    Can be felt in touch so tender?



  • You open like a hand that bears a gift,
    Like a mouth about to sing, like a womb.
    And yesterday is folded up in light
    As dreams are born again inside the dew.

    The heavy veil of night, of blinding doubt,  
    Has lifted with the lids of my new eyes;
    I am remade in the turning, turning
    To the One who softly bids me arise.

    I come to you with open palms outstretched,
    And sense the strength of earth under my feet.
    As wind moves through the forest in my chest,
    My gaze rests on the rise and fall of leaves.

    What will I say with thirty thousand breaths?
    What beauty will the silences conceive?
    What music will my soul compose for You
    As my heart sounds a hundred thousand beats?

    Whatever comes, whatever fills my hands,
    May one request meet every breath and beat:
    That I would have the vision of Jesus
    So I might choose to love as He loves me.




  • Into the void crashed waves of light

       When You spoke to darkest night.

    Father of rain, Mother of dew,

       One who spun the expanse of blue: 

    Teach me to read deeply the skies;

       Open my ears, baptize my eyes.


    Earth turned as a thought in Your mind;

      Matter and space and time combined

    In Your hands. O, Master of spheres,

       Whose grace molds and upholds my years;

    Whirl me, shape me, hand over clay;

       Night unto night, day unto day.


    In all things Your glory is found;

       Wordlessly, the heavens resound.

    Poet of wing, of wind, of flight,

       Who paints an arc with rain and light,

    Take my vision where eagles dwell,

       That I might know Your poem well.  


    In the silence Creation sings;

       Symphonies sound in Saturn’s rings.   

    Maker of moons that peak and hide,

       Artist of stars and planets flung wide:

    Bathe me in gold, clothe me in light;

       Let my life speak to darkest night.