is to be read from the beginning, as most things are.


That Dress

One time I made a family portrait,
you know, for art class.
For Mrs. Boscoe, my favorite.
Because we stamped real fish once.

Those rounded plastic scissors
traced my siblings limbs, cutting off
a finger or two, a chunk of hair.
A birthday cake, and a plastic fork.

I arranged my family
as if they were all at a party.
I even pasted a diet coke into a crack
of my mother’s thick paper hand.

The cake, I cut myself,
and placed a triangle of it onto a fork,
into my sister’s fingers. Au natural
The perfect snapshot of a happy family.

One thing I forgot
to glue delicately
near the hip of my mother,
was my own face.

My eyes bulging from
the corners of my smooth face,
my hair an imperfect nest
around my head.

I would have been wearing that dress,
the Mexican one,
that I don’t remember wearing.



The J.B.’s got the blues,
the hues and the grooves.
Grown from the muddy swamps
of green Louisiana.

How is it that those swamps are
bluer than the Jersey coast?

Still, there ain’t nothin’ bluer
than the isles of Greece,
where you can see the tip
of your toes, waist deep in water.

The farther you look,
the bluer the water gets out there.

My favorite blue though,
is the opaque one around the moon.
Only when the clouds are just right,
or maybe the tides synchronized.