Wing Dreams

When I quit eating poultry I never knew 

I’d have dreams about hot wings. 

The spice left in my gullet when I woke,

Nose stuffy, mind still at the county fair,

Feeling both disgusting, and primal. 

We all have this idea of civility,

A moral compass that screams

“Thou shalt not kill!” 

But I taste the wings,

I know that I save 518 gallons

Of water per pound of chicken,

So why does my mind still desire

This tearing of flesh? 

Why only wings?

Humanity is not entirely civilized-

It is foolish of us to believe 

We can rescue our minds…

Yet, I saved 518 gallons of water today. 



I hear it coming,

The splitting of what was sewn

And lumped together for so long,

That they began to fuse.

With pus and skin cells clinging

When limb touched limb for too long

In the hospital bed not on the 

Window side of the world, 

The split was pain and tearing and blood

for the greater good of each leg,

Glaringly obvious and necessary, 

Ignored and denied until inevitable. 



Being both creative and clinically depressed

is like harboring an inward storm,

Violent, sweeping, clearing the shore of debris

at the same time leaving bodies 

of sea-mammals on the sand 

for the art of it. 

It’s salvation and destruction
holding hands inside your chest,

one hand slowly pulling every shred

of individuality out into the air,

while the other tucks it back into your guts.

Some people know their life’s song
From the moment they are born-

They hold certainty in their bones-

But a clinically creative’s

symphony orchestra has too many

crescendos to keep time, or decide

what song it wants to play, as if a single 

genre could ever hold their world steady.

Thus, you accept this music for what it is- 

winding and erratic,  

you take the waves in stride

as they pitch sharp notes, long rests, 

a flurry of beats and time changes-
Most of all,

the clinically creative endures exhaustion

of mind and soul, the struggle to create-

the true pulling out of that which inextricably binds us to our humanity-

almost always outweighs the urge to spend 

midnight moments in malaise-

From one woman to another

Women have weight, 
some say we are too heavy-
I say to shoulder their words, 

let the little rips roll off

or tip on their sides-

Shoulder Their Words!

Like we have shouldered 

the sons and daughters 

of this nation for three hundred years.

Shoulder them all-

you are strong enough.

You have the weight 

to carry them forward- 

Shoulder them all

whether they deserve it

or not, 

and know that 

I will shoulder you, too. 

Poetry sits 

I wish people knew that God doesn’t come to me and demand my focus, the idea of spiritual change is disheartening and difficult, and my heart sometimes thinks itself more religious than my brain. 

I wish for faith like the poor wish for coin and the hungry for grain. 

I wish they knew nothing is promised and we sweep each other to the side, and we write to fill the spaces left in the streets, and that poetry sits at the dining table with influence and insolence and images of what we see and what we wish to see.

Nobody ever tells you about the guilt

They don’t tell you about the dull ache inside your ribs, or that you’ll see someone with the same dishwater blonde hair across the street, and when you do your heart will leap into your throat, begging you to cry out but choking it silent with a thump thump- they never tell you that each day you were too busy to call you were too busy to write you were too busy busy busy is another minute you’ll spend crying when they’re below you in the dampness, cold, stiff, quietly uninhabited. Nobody ever tells you about the guilt-