one way ticket

i stood there at that bus stop

on the hill,


book in hand,

reading about the galapagos islands

and a sailor turned poet

who almost crashed into them.

next to me a tree bloomed into a fence;

i didn’t know its name.

i stood there at that crossroads,


a purpose,

a heading,

a sign,

a job.

it feels so long ago now.

but i felt the most alive then:

deep in that despair—with an edge of hope.

i knew somehow it would all work out.

i knew we would be ok.

but the desperation sharpened something in me

that will never be the same.



alive: for dad

i keep trying to crawl into that photograph

of you in your uniform, of you in your


youth-prime, proud smiling on your mother’s

arm with the crinkly eyes of your future daughters.


after the flagship burned,

and the wheelhouse turned,


you became good at seeing angels;

yeah, you were all right.


when asked how you were doing,

you said, well, i’m alive.


and my mirror cells replied,

well, that’s every thing.

Dad and Grandma