My mother and father made smoke in the kitchen
over hot pots and pans, over hot water and oil,
over time, over each other’s bellies. They danced
in front of the oven until fire shot from their feet;
showed us how love might look at the end of a long
$50,000 is a slice of life narrative, hovering between prose and poetry with a five-standalone-sentences per page format. Advertised as a long poem, it is a great book for poetry-lovers and haters alike as it is modest in its poetical techniqu...
I have a hard time throwing away holy socks.
Every time I put one on, I think, awe man,
… this ain’t so bad.
When I put one on this morning, my big toe
Was halfway out. A rebel sock making its own holes
a fingerless glove for your foot. Brass knuckled toes
Grape tomatoes, these swollen berries like summer
ornaments, dangle from tethered vine. Their ripeness
judged by how delicately they hold their stem. With fingers
wrapped like cupping a firefly, it should come loose. Pull
too hard and it won't be ready....
Two couples strolling in the Gardens
Buttoned-up in overcoats
Against a bright November sun.
Beyond where they walk on the stony path
There are the stains of footmarks across
The morning-wet grass: primary school
Children, freed for the day,
I see the train pass by
and reminisce my childhood dreams...
I lift my feet, pull them close off the ground,
tumble backward into memory.
A frothy neighborhood pool:
playing, swimming with my friends, siblings,
and then I hear the rumble of the train