anxiously waiting
by the phone
the dreaded news

all night
the sound of dribbling
on the neighbor’s driveway

stretching out on
the carpet
study break

morning church
dad sleeps
during the sermon

I put my headphones in
a break
from the world

an open field
the dog
chases a tennis ball

blowing up balloons
for a birthday party
can't catch my breath

orange cheese fingers
the crevices
of my controller

tracking in
all the melting snow and mud
a fresh snow

the old bus stop
carries my wishes
home

a night of news
he won’t let go
of my hand

a cape whooshes
along with red converse
little superhero

black bear
grandpa likes the
burnt cookies

the full moon
shining bright
brings out the crazies

stepping off the porch
rolling my ankle
how many people saw that?

lying out in a field
looking at the stars
with him

Sunday morning rain
your warm
touch

denim on denim
the constant
i can rely on

a new day begins
the law of attraction
i won’t let you in

the rainbow
    a sign
the best is yet to come

warm summer night
in a tent
under the stars

21 roses
for 21 years . . .
love grandpa

steamy shower
the stress I have
down the drain . . .

invading stars
i look
through the sunroof

we stand at the water's edge
sand burns our feet—
grandma teaches me the four agreements

grandma removes her scarf before bed
. . . the rare sight
of a Muslim woman's hair

Sunday rainfall
sounds like gunshots
hungover

 
quiet evening my roommate watches a flat-earth documentary

the orange line
the place
that feels like home

old black ford
riding windows down
towards the sunset

the tampon machine
empty
Sister, can you spare a quarter?

reverberant walls
she chooses to
sing a little louder

I hear the bass boom
I hear a bed creek
I add another blanket

snow on Friday
spring on
Sunday

footprints in the dewy grass
a forgotten key
again

burnt toast—
the waitress back
from spring break

untuned banjo
she likes it
anyway

walking away
not today
girl scouts

fields of green
knee high
by fourth of July

cold spring's night
placing my feet
on the bonfire bricks

laundry pile
I'll get to that . . .
tomorrow

dead playwright
left his soul imprinted
with his words

silver car:
my stuff lives
in the back seat

musty gym . . .
still feeling
yesterday's conditioning

early morning tradition
podcast playing
pancakes cooking

sunny spring day
too soon
Dreamlake

halt
ducks crossing the
duck crossing

grandma's garden
salt on a sun-warmed
tomato

you have to choose
life or love
Cystic Fibrosis

summer break—
sounds of my children playing
through the open window

the baby cries
until it sees
the bottle

open road ahead
thinking to yourself
who am I

the smell
of my first cup
pumpkin spice

date night earrings
the only thing
i'm wearing tonight

face blush red
asking the pretty girl
for a dance

sunbathing      and
unamused by your presence
the fat house cat

waking up early
for a glimpse
tooth fairy magic

the black dog panting
she walks
toward the shade tree

haiku
the mind’s
View-Master

monday morning
a soft nudge
from my feline friend

yellow raincoat
she escapes
into the coffeeshop

driving for hours
looking for an exit
gas on empty

the coffee maker’s final hiss
our last semester’s
attendance bell

Barbie fishing pole
line breaks
Northern

sandhill crane
meets me
my favorite spot

thrilled for them
until you realize
you’re the lonely one

two weeks of laundry
reminds me:
no clean jeans

dirty clothes piling up
too daunting
for a Sunday night

Elvis strings
his guitar
one last time

two years
and the string of lights
have not gone out

sitting in the field
her tears in the stars
glistening

clicking and clacking
her shoes strike the ground
I flip my hair

waiting by the window
the cool air seeps in
I grab a blanket

on the couch
neglecting homework
March Madness

Dunkin’ a day
and the happiness
stays

teaching my baby sister
how to drive
pray for      my car

Dreamlake
surrounded from every direction
Quack, Quack

Mamma Mia!
mistaken
for a high schooler

smooth black liquid
runs into the pan
—oil change

grandma's whispered confession:
she wears sunglasses
to look younger

the wind gusts
carry me
when I jump

baseball weather
Spring Break
one week too soon

Grandma's soft wrinkles
      Mama's new gray hairs
            my chunky 6th grade glasses

momma "promises"
to be more gentle
as she tugs away at my new growth

a mother blue jay
comforts her young
the storm

North American Birds . . .
my father’s book
on the coffee table

the sun comes up
cinnamon rolls
at the kitchen counter

noisy box fan—
can’t sleep
without it