Poetry

The Surrealist Takes a Shave (For Sylvia Plath) The blade scrapes Reddened skin Sharp and stiff. It courses ‘round The nape of my nose, Across my cheek, And down my…

The Grudge you retain your luster like a pearl on an ocean shelf, undisturbed, protected in your crypt, the icy water preserving your power, polishing your poison, positing your pain,…

Paranoid (For Emily Dickinson) I stood Concussed on the Margins of life in a corner shied away far from the Madness the strife, the pain, staving off the infection at…

Her Phantom Fingers Her phantom fingers find me —sometimes — in the maudlin morning, periwinkle ribbons sweeping the tops of the woods below my window, and — perhaps — she…