POETRY
Ghosted
Written during August of 2024
The train rattles against its tracks,
carrying me back to the town
where the yellow street lights flicker.
I step off, suitcase in hand,
where the sole sound ripples—
wheels churning cracked tiles.
The road home extends: familiar
houses sleeping in their lots, windows
hollow, familiar curtains
shut, closed off to the outside world. When
I reach my front door, the handle has
flaked—paint peeling fresh
from the door, smearing with my touch.
The rooms are sleeping as I enter
just as I left them, dust draping furniture
filling a place that no longer feels like mine.
I listen for ghosted sounds—
no footsteps in the hall,
no voices calling from the bedroom.
Sitting on a bench, children’s laughter
ringing out the same
verses of joy I once rang.
The kids chase each other, Autumn dust
kicking up the leaves. Now
I loom, tracing the grain of wood
in the October shade.
With every touch, my hands mingle
with the memory of infinite hands
once resting here, hands that now hold
other hands, hands that rest in pockets,
or hands that cling to phones on dirty beds.
Soon, the day fades. The playground empties, swings
left swaying in the breeze. As the last
children leave, their laughter vibrates more
softly, until the world is small again—
a tree, a bench, and me, longing
for a night that promises more than
the solitude I know so well.
after Jim Whiteside
I sink my feet into the pool
while watching a boy, orbiting
at ten years old, leaping into water
only to shed it from his dewy skin.
Will he one day stand, as I do
now, reflecting on ringing laughter?
As the machine reassembles
the lawn, one blade at a time, will he
understand the slow, grieving work
of rebuilding a lost life? Will he hear
the birds retreating from the songs
of his laughter dilated by time?
Maybe he will confront the flames
that took his father from bone
only lingering in the boy’s memory
of campfire songs and bedtime
stories, road trips sprouting grins.
But maybe, in his room, he floats
a bag of ashes, waiting for his father’s voice
to echo through the midsummer wind.
Watching him now, he burns
with laughter. I hope he never sits
in the dark, watching light flicker, reaching
for a clock that no longer ticks.
Elegy in
midsummer wind
Written during June of 2024
Mother to
Daughter
Written during June of 2024
Through whirling coaster tracks
we hovered, slippery and sweaty
hands latching the wooden railing.
Mirroring her focused gaze, her sparkling
eyes, I escape the humdrum lines
with her, the bustling crowds morphing
into Would You Rather questions.
In line, we stand
shoulder-to-shoulder, mother to
daughter—grinning, sun reluctant
to burn our necks, warming like an echoing
laugh inside an empty room. The same way
her laugh always stirs dried leaves
into song. Together, we face
each towering ride—the sharp dives
of the coasters, the teacups’ dizzy whirls.
The ferris wheel’s gentle sway.
Confidence in each stealthy step, we take
shelter in the shade, as the sun beams
onto the asphalt before us, no reason
to hesitate any longer.
I awaited the crescendo of sirens
as my white knuckles
clutch crumbling tissues.
The ambulance grew
from a faint echo to a mustering storm,
and the world screeched into static.
A stranger whisked me away
with hands I reached for once and only once.
I sunk into a looming truck.
Frantic shadows flung on sterile walls,
and the antiseptic pulse thrummed.
Maybe diligent workers scurried
Maybe outsiders waved
Maybe tables flooded with bandages
I envision myself conversing
with the ambulance’s hurtles
What lives have you touched?
What stories did you witness?
Maybe it was a toddler
shivering alone in a corner.
Maybe it was an elder
taking fragile breaths
Maybe it was someone like me
laying still for the first time
As a pedestrian, I lost count
of the number of times
I covered my ears,
shot annoyed glances
at the red headlights
slicing the daylight
But today, seeing sterile walls,
I no longer see a truck,
I see a life
of someone living
an unforgettable day.
Unforgettable
Day
Written during April of 2024
Freedom in the Sea
Written during June of 2022
Under rigorous waves, advancing and retreating in uniformity,
There lies water, unsettling yet serene.
The cowardly conforming sand, forcibly patterned by the scolding tide,
Is grasped by eight tentacles, delicate yet keen.
One tentacle gracefully ascends from the still ocean floor,
Revealing the dangerously soft suckers concealed by the dunes of sand.
The sand trembles, with a mark that ruined its harmonic pattern.
Seven more tentacles help to push, transcending the ocean's grand.
The eight tentacles rise and fall, playfully dancing like a rhythmic breeze.
They orchestrate an ethereal ballet, paying no attention to its neighbors' troubles.
The grounded coral reef, similar-looking fish, and menacing sharks,
Give captivated gazes by her dancing, with compliments from shimmering bubbles.
Movements full of grace, courage, and versatility,
Find their free delight in uniformed water currents.
They can be themselves, in their unique body that stands out among a crowd.
They can mimic another creature, but only during vulnerability emergents.
Under the uniformed rigorous waves, there lies an octopus.
No chain to hold its liveliness, no boundaries to adhere.
An emblem of freedom forever celebrated under the rigorous tides.
Its existence freeing the ocean's norms with an impact so severe.