Moving Day

This probably comes from finally having begun cleaning out my childhood bedroom.


I’m moving to Canada today,

To room with a friend who has been

Waiting for me up there,

For some time.

There’s a pool in our new complex, so

I take care to pack bathing suits,

Especially those

I find comforting, reminders

Of this old home. My books

Are harder, too heavy to take many

With me, so I begin to stack them in piles

And move through them slowly,

Missing their thick spines



To Find a Demon

I’ve been watching too many things with demons in them recently.


I don’t technically have tickets to this train,

But that’s all right –

The takers are dull, and only think

Something’s gone wrong with their scanner,

When my out-of-date pass won’t register.

I get off with a crowd at the end of the line,

At the mansion party along the cliff

Everyone wants to be at. But I’ve come not

For fun, but to find a certain demon

I last heard could be found here.

The partygoers number in the thousands,

Each dark head similar to the last, even my parents

And mother-in-law part of the throng.

I search for the strongest sense of evil,

Follow it through marble halls

And green-tiled corridors until

I catch the eyes I need.


I don’t think my mind will ever be done with college.


Our professor has come back

To speak at our reunion,

One of my favorites but

On a research trip, she lost

All memory of us and herself.

Now, dressed like herself and able

To speak almost as she did,

She still has a confused glaze

To her every movement,

Especially when I remind her

Who I am, and press my cell number

Into her hand to say

I could be there, if she needed help.

Darkness Spreads

Another creepy dream after a chunk of time without any.


It’s in the trees,

She says as her mother drives away

Leaving us behind with our red Subaru

Parked in the middle of this snowy track

Through nothing but woods.

Alone, the danger is more real

And we leap into our car,

Shut the doors and drive

Until the trees are gone.

The sky holds a patch of stars

Through cloudy blue, the big dipper,

And as I point it out

Night bleeds through, sweeping like a wave

Over the whole world.

Something’s gone terribly wrong,

She says.

Night Harvest

Nothing like a creepy dream after weeks of not remembering any.


It’s important to be

Silent, in these woods.

A garbage truck growls by,

Prowling its way through the trees,

And I stay low,

Wait for it to pass.

The hill I need isn’t far in

But you have to leap a deep ravine

To get to it.

I jump, throw myself

At the lines of clothes and bedding

Strewn through the branches.

I manage to grab a blanket

Before I tumble down the other side,

Landing at a roll in

Grass singed to coarse sparseness.

I cannot be in this open space

For long, so I tear

The rest of my catch away

From the wood, and run.

It’s all I needed for tonight, anyway.

New Wings

This dream felt eerily real.


I look in the mirror in this

Darkened room, the glass stained

From years of dust and disuse.

While the others plan, I turn my back

To my reflection, remind myself

Of the way I can help. All it would take

Would be wings, if I could grow them.

I picture them, warm in my core, and

My skin splits, in two long slices of

Rawness and blood, from which press,

Like birth, feathers and joints and long

Hollow bones. The weight of them

Drags, but is manageable, especially as

I still cannot quite believe I have them,

Some years early, and bloody, but ready

To fight alongside the rest.


I wouldn’t wholly mind it if I had this commute in real life.


I’ve come this way before,

To visit my girlfriend where she works

In the city. You have to pass

The corner where construction

Is underway, the vehicles large and yellow,

Loud as they rip the concrete.

Children are always playing there

This time of day, a group with a ball

I worry, every time, will smack me

In the face as I walk by.

It doesn’t this time, either.

Then it’s the waterfront, and a long,

Narrow boardwalk to climb.

The stairs that lead to its wooden planks

Are, today, covered with tide,

And I wade up them, drip

Onto the dry slats

As I slowly make my way across

Miles of open sea.