Featured Poems
Kākāpō
When the kid asks me “
What does love look like?”
I flock to the kākāpō.
A fat green parrot,
the kākāpō cannot fly.
It comes out at night,
is a vegetarian,
and is dying.
When a kākāpō falls in love
he finds a place to dig.
He makes a bowl in the ground,
sits in the middle,
and screams.
You can hear him for miles!
He loses half his body weight
in the act.
I think about this
as the kid stares.
“Someone who will dig a hole
and scream for me.”
I tell them.
They do not understand.
They are too young.
My slow-rising bones long
for the comfort of
a good scream.
There is no true relief
in grand romantic gestures.
Sometimes what you need
is someone who screams
for the reason you scream.
Who takes you by the wing
and together, you scream.
Patron Saint of Lost Girls
I dreamt I drove down an ocean highway
Salt water breeze blowing through my hair
A sea of silver glass to my right
Dark columns of basalt to my left.
And you were there-
The you you should have been
Smiling and vibrant and so very alive.
We did not speak-
Dreams are no place for apologies.
But you laughed, the exuberance infectious,
And put on bright yellow sunglasses
While I hit the gas, startling a flock of seagulls
From their perch on the guardrail.
After you left, I prayed so hard
On my knees in empty chapels
Begging for answers, explanations
How could a light so bright
Be convinced of its own darkness?
But my mother’s saints were silent.
The Church has no place for lost girls.
When I could no longer kneel
I set my feet on a pilgrim path
Your memory my road.
I lit candles in Spanish cathedrals
Sent prayers in hookah smoke
Wrote your name in guest books
In Jerusalem and San Salvador.
My baptism was of road dust and rainfall
Communion of tortillas and cheap beer.
Confirmation was the hum of the tattooist’s gun
Confession online and anonymous.
Sacraments of a twenty-something girl
Living for one who cannot.
I wrote your hagiography in blog posts
Told of your wonder in darkened bars
Dedicated the works of my hands to your smile.
Yours was the face that stayed my hand
When my darkness was deepest,
A lifeline thrown into roiling seas.
Patron of Lost Girls
Your canonization was accidental,
Your miracles performed for a congregation of one.
Youngest of my personal saints
I see your fingerprints in the chaos.
Subtle nudges, ineffable
Led me not to where I wanted
But where I needed to go.
Though I know you watch over me now
My life blessed by your intercession-
I would rather have you here again
Your life shining the way a reflection cannot.
No saint, no martyr, just my friend
Laughing in the passenger seat
Singing along at the top of our lungs
As we chase the sun down the coast.
