She rubbed as hard as she could, 

just to feel. 

The light on the balcony 

was pale. 

The room, momentarily 


with the opening, 

panning shot 

of Pale Rider. 

She would watch it on repeat 

to get out of doing the washing up. 

Strategic incompetence. 

A mainstream women’s publisher emailed with generic feedback: 

“We received many pieces from our readers, 

which were beautifully atmospheric, 

but in which nothing happened.” 

She rubbed, 

as hard as she could. 

Archived it in a swipe, and 

headed out. 

TK Maxx for tights, 

of a Saturday night. 

Walking along the shore, the 

pale moon full of lore, 

Silky nylon, and diaphanous 


chewy bamboo, 

no-pull, cotton denier, dusky 

diamond-patterned lace, 

and barely there. 


to feel.

An Ontology of Roses 

The reality was

that when I looked at him 

I couldn’t help but wonder how he’d be. 

I like to be plucked in a certain way you see

depending upon the time of day

but then it’s all in the smell of a neck anyway. 

The truth is that some men know how to kiss. 

They just know. 

Others kiss with a closed mouth 

because they can’t let go. 

Some gobble you up 

or drown you out. 

But when you’ve found the right kiss, 

every kiss is an eternal death. 

An ontology of roses, 

and wildfires.

French windows, summer 2018

French windows, summer 2018



A waterfall 

haunts my neck. 


Pummelling things said.


The shower—fixed—

retains a constant temperature. 


(Some people need drama 

in order to exist, so they create it.)


I sit in a pool. 

Algae tide like flash-


A lily pad flannel, 




All we can do is itemise things. 


Lost soap—swirl 

my hand. 



a bar of gold.


Write this down—

you never knew him.

My Spiritual Cowboy three poems exhibited in a literary salon at The Museum of Human Achievement in Austin, Texas, October 2018, curated by novelist & artist-in-residence, Susan Finlay; featuring poets Auerlia Guo, William Kherbeck, Phoebe Blatton, Sarah Harrison, Amy Key and Daisy Lafarge. 39.9 KB

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