First Mother

My eyes are plastic
Blind with dew.
Oh Earth!
I am too unnatural for you.
Even my knees are suspect,
My elbows subject to your surveillance.
In a garden ages ago,
A woman who was my oldest mother
Was made of skin,
With hands of fruit.
After her,
The door slammed shut.
Angel with sword of light barring
The encapsulated botanical zoo.
Kudzu slid out the door at her ankles,
Always ready to charge and choke.
In her aggressive moniker
Ritualistic fire,
And through the chemical canal
That was newborn woman,
Plastic people,
Synergistic city sewing.


Particolored Joy

Unfair fields mock my festivities.
Out here my breath turns to flowers.
I am a sprinkle.
I am the whole fluffy cake with buttercream frosting.
The pianist plays among the poppies ,
The flutist in the daffodils.
But the field opens up its maw
at the far end of the horizon,
and everything falls in,
Particolored joy abating in a black abyss.


Behind violence,
Beyond liquidity,
Is my red faced Iniquity
Doing the tango with Shame.
The music is devilish,
And I fear for my feelings.
I owe fealty to my Father in Heaven
(Hallowed be thy name)
But my feet are wicked,
My soul slack.
Strung through the notes,
A bloodstone pin.


Vicious Verbosity


Under a stitched sun
And a macrome moon,
I hunt words,
Trapping them in my bell jar.
See how the little monsters run!
Peckish, I must track them.
My teeth are faint with hunger.
Oh Candelabra! Do come back!
It will be painless, I promise.
Quintessential, I have you cornered.
The heavens shudder at my
Vicious verbosity.


I am a Christian. I am happily married to the man of my dreams. And I am bi.

I have never acted on this impulse, first because of my religious beliefs, secondly because of the sanctity of my marriage.

However, I am attracted to men and women. Strongly, to both. Just to clarify, I never look at my friends that way, so if we are friends just know I am not talking about you.

For a long time I would not even tell my husband about this. When I finally did, nervously, he said he figured as much. That relieved me and startled me. Was it that obvious? I wanted to keep it private, keep it secret.

Since then it turns out that I have been able to keep it hidden. My mother suspected something when she read a poem I wrote, but that’s it.

We live in a culture (in the United States) where various sexualities are accepted and even celebrated. As a Christian though, I simply cannot celebrate. I accept myself. It is not a sin to be bisexual, only to act on it. This is just how I am wired. I write poetry about it because I love beauty, and it gives me an outlet to express that part of myself without acting it out. But I cannot celebrate it.

It feels both nerve wracking and freeing to write this. I have been tired of locking away a part of myself, and denying part of my creative expression, out of shame or fear. I am who I am, and there should be a place for me in this culture, both as a bisexual and a bisexual Christian in particular.

More on this subject to come. I have many thoughts.

Winter Women


Summer sylphs repel me,
Slip away as though they were never a certainty.
I prefer winter women,
Fat with autumn and
Soft as snowfall
Their bodies as deliberate as shadow,
As lovable and mysterious as cloud.



Her legs are incendiary.
Though I travel 100 miles,
Dragging the point of myself
Through broken glass,
She watches my natural fullness like
A leopard a pattern in the grass.

Hunt my beastful blush,
Lick the harmony of my breasts.

What can she sing with her lips
Pursed in kiss?

Her butt a lush earth,
Her waist the willfulness of tornadoes,
Her soft belly bread
Baked in the Parisian dawn.

It is the ritual of her hands hunting me,
The reminds me that pleasure rhymes
With guilt.

Woman to Woman



Her hair is so cool.
The bridge of her lips I consider straddling.
In the sweet musk of human frailty,
I rollick like a ship to sea
When she gazes at me,
Knife to meat,
Erosion to beach,
Destruction was never so complete.
Spread open like an unread book,
I am searched –
My ecstasy excavated,
Preserved in her skin,
Dissolving on her tongue.

In an Office of Glass

A careful umbrella

channels the rain

like tv reception.


I am a receptionist in an office of glass.

See this phone?

This is my phone.

There are many like it,

but this one is mine.



transfer me to God please.


I field grape juice flavored calls

From cathedrals.

Wine about everything.


Beneath the crystalline floor,

an alien jumps into the pool.

Foreign spirits gather in the lobby.



Take me home.