So my friend Phil is telling me how
he can’t get a date
how he loves women and how
they’re always giving him looks
so I ask him what kind of looks
I forgive you for being beautiful and generous and wise.
I forgive you, to put it simply, for being alive, and pardon you, in short, for being you.
think of my love
as a red glass button
hanging on a threadbare dress
Is something burning? Is something here
on fire? It smells like something here is
burning or on fire. It might be in my head.
Please forgive this blatant self-promotion, but I want to share with you a link to a review of my new collection of poems American Ash in the highly regarded and popular magazine Cultural Weekly, curated by Alexis Rhone Fancher.
Boots from my son’s eighth grade year,
outgrown far faster than the heart-deep
humiliations he bore for being gay
that I could not protect him from.
The heavy snow has split the oak out front,
its right branch lodges in a parked car’s roof
and splays across the windshield and the hood.