Riding Waves, a book of poetry, was published by Finishing Line Press in February of 2018.
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Mother's Day
as published by The Comstock Review, 2019

The SUV taps the woman pushing her cart
and she flies up, body tossed by red metal.
Sitting on the asphalt, she howls into her phone,
Now my Mother's Day is ruined! Leg bent,
white bone showing.

On a distant hill, a herd of black heifers low
their distress, helpless against dogs and men
on horses, as their little calves skitter in fear;
are caught, cut and branded. Forlorn mothers,
white nostrils sniffing acrid smoke.

A chirp sounds in the trees and the naturalist
bounds over snags and poison oak to catch a chick.
He cups the infant in hand as the mother turkey
rushes forward, feathers flaring brown and black
consternation, voice whooping alarm.

How could my mother have abandoned her ten-year-
old son? And, yet, when the sheriff pulled my brother
from her arms by force, she charged down the road,
beating on the squad car, trumpeting her rage
for all the world to hear.

as published by The Comstock Review, 2019

My son told me his friend was dead
because he'd been stupid. I'll take
food, I said.

Pressing edges, I wrap the casserole,
crimping tight the care for strangers
who've just lost their son. Through
the window, I see them at the table,
a huddle of lonesome.

The man opens his door, the one his boy
opened every day of his life, to me,
nobody he knows, and I stand exposed,
soundless, holding my covered dish.
"I'm sorry," I stammer. "My son
is James." His gaze empties, deserted
by my use of the present tense.

The husband calls his wife to receive
me and I still my breath; I'll give
the meal I made for them and run.
But she's next to me now, her deep wail
begins for what must be the hundredth time.

"He was so beautiful," she says, the warble
cry of her vocal folds reaching to hold
the weight of my arms around her,
and my words, "My heart breaks for you,"
fall into her delicate hands, fall into her hair.

"Do you need your dish back?"
"No, it's all for you," I say and leave,
leave them to the rest of their lives
around the table without him.

What's Lost

And where is my hummingbird nest?
Lichens stud the tiny pouch, bits of dust,
pillow fuzz for babies. The Mazda key
is missing again. I'm turning pants inside out,
peering into mantel clock, tension mounting.
My kids roll their eyes and begin counting.

We moved from town to town, red brick
houses, yellow Mayflower vans, marble-top
dresser wrapped in blue quilts, grandmother's
fairy books, Aunt Min's needlepoint, and my
records: Meet the Beatles, Dave Clark Five.
My chore: checking numbers on stickers
as movers carried out Navy orders.
Florida, Mississippi, South Carolina, Texas,
Virginia, California, Missouri, Kansas.
Will you all welcome our new student?
Nineteen schools: a child's tour of duty
across a nation at war.

When I was 25, my grandmother sent a list
of all the places I'd claimed since coming of age,
her careful handwriting filled the folded page.
Love-lost streets, numbers of mistaken
pregnancies, cities of abandoned paths.

When I lose something, how can I explain
to my children, who grew up in one house
in this leafy college town, played Ghost
in the Graveyard with freckled friends, filled
the basement with Legos and plastic lions,
basked in unsplintered light of parents' marriage,
ignorant of wars fought in far lands by volunteer forces,

it's my Iron Butterfly, my white chenille spread
with phoenix at the center, piano and dance lessons
postponed, the grand piano sold,
the child looking for a nest,
however fragile.

Books and Matches

That summer my mother took up residence as Queen of the Lariat Bar,
leaving fourteen-year-old me tumbling loose in the Rockies,
I told those cowboys I was sixteen because I wanted to lead
horseback rides. No one knew I'd learned to ride from books.
The first time I sat a saddle, leather smells like her wallet, I held
my back erect, squeezed my thighs around the haunch,
and let the reins tell me of the horse's mouth.

Plodding geldings and mares, dusty, heavy with tourists
from the city, picking our way up the mountain, me at the head
of the line on a dapple gray, lighting a Salem, holding the match
book pinched between two fingers, my cupped hand forming
a wind-block, using my thumb to strike flame.
This I had learned from boys,
not books.

Green Heron

A ringing in my ears, like an aperture allowing excess
light, has wrecked my focus, frazzling boundaries
between me and the world and for the first time
in my life, I want to die. I dip into sleep, dream
a monster outside my cage changes into a brownish-green
bird I've never seen. I wake and find the same bird
at Jewel Lake, drawing the net of its gaze across crayfish
under glazed surface, preparing to strike from the rushes.
Green Heron, says a bird watcher, the ugliest bird ever.
Unruffled, the heron lifts each foot, places stick toes
with precision, sunlight refracting through emerald eye.
Humans wander off, voices humming like gnats; at last,
silence. Let the demon become a friend, let the green heron
teach me to stalk the quarry of my lost quiet
and all the sustenance it can give.


When the hurricanes came, my mother would tape
the windows, criss-cross with big Xs and fill
the bathtub full of water. We'd pack the white VW
and head for the Travelodge with the sleepy bear
overlooking the parking lot. I was ten and eating
blueberry pancakes at the diner was fun until one
time we came back to Pensacola Beach and found
the concrete block house three doors down gone.
It exploded from pressure when the tornadoes
, said my mother. They forgot to leave a window
. I made a note: huge storms carry smaller calamities
around with them. And it was true about Vietnam.

Every A-6 ordinance aimed, my father dropping in a nose
dive and every napalm bomb released, my stepfather
cruising in his F-4, exploded at home as my mother,
like Ruby in "Don't Take Your Love to Town," rolled
black fishnets over her thighs and drove away over the
speed bumps in our blue station wagon.

Waging a personal war on me, my blonde mother Scotch
taped my brown hair in a curl against my cheek at night.
At the beach, she told me I looked like a tank and grabbed
the flesh of my leg to show me. As Christmas tears
fell into her rum and coke, I opened my presents slowly,
savoring the tiny happiness. My little brother cried because
he'd opened all his. My mother glared with her blank blue
stare, said I didn't deserve Christmas presents. I ran to my
room and wouldn't come out.

A regular ritual: sitting on her flowered bedspread, listening
to cassettes tapes sent from strange addresses — NAVACTS, NY, NY —
recorded in cockpits by our broken stepdad. The recorder spindles
turned on the bed as she begged me to sing "Noche de Paz," in Spanish
and, against my loud protests, tell him I'd had my first period.
When the war ended, everything would go back to how it used to be.

I left her
at fourteen and sojourned fifteen years, seeking
the quarry of my heart: stealing Slicker lipstick, playing
Joni, steel strings digging grooves into my fingertips,
flaring femme fatale, just like my mother, and
hating her for it. I arched my back through lover after lover,
pyroclastic blasts that left no trace.

On metamorphic rock, erupted by volcanic explosions,
I discovered hidden petroglyphs and studied one pictograph
for years: the hunter on the wall. A stick figure aiming his tiny
arrow at a mastodon, about to mow him down —
was I the hunter or the target?

I justified loose margins with Transcendentalism, Sufism, Taoism,
spinning A Love Supreme — a scholarly nature girl, onyx nose, tripping
to "Waltz of the Flowers" in Fern Canyon at the San Diego Zoo,
frolicking in white-gold surf of the Pacific. Once, at a Rajneesh meditation,
my docile saxophone lover and I jumped blindfolded for an hour to a tape
of mad drums to ignite primal feelings until I heard his voice scream Fuck you, Bitch!!
I kept hearing the old Tex Ritter song,"I hate you one and all, oh blast your eyes!"

Words fell from my ordered page; I went two-stepping to Nortena
music in East Oakland with my mojado novio, a former boxer
with a scar in his belly from a gunshot wound. You are for everybody, mi Reina!
He was a sorcerer who taught me to fight. After I fled him, I took up
charanga with a Venezuelan charmer; he taped my mouth closed,
opening me only when needed. Thanks to him,
I began to punch my father out when I danced alone.

In time, I located the blue eye of the hurricane,
suffered the three marriages: self, true companion, vocation.
When the lab report came, I let the hunters cut me
and bind my chest with tape.
It blew over,
like a cyclone might,
if you leave a window open.

The poem, "Tape" is published on the San Miguel de Allende Writers' Conference Website as First Place Winner for Poetry, 2016.