The Wake-Up Call


When it was time
to wake me up
to go fishing,

he stood at the end
of the bed and held
my foot in his hands

as if it were a piece
of crystal, the way
he must have done

when I was a baby,
but I was too tired
to wake up and

too young to understand
how much he needed
me to be his son. 

-previously published in Poetry Breakfast



My Mother's Shoes


My mother's shoes
filled the bottom 
of her closet
when she died.

They were in such poor condition
they screamed at me
about my lack of attention.

I paused and stared at them
for a few minutes
listening carefully 
to their chastisement.

Slowly, I picked them up
studying each one
as if it were an ancient relic
of some bygone civilization. 

My sister handed me a trash bag;
she didn't want to be the one to do it. 

I filled the large green plastic bag,
all the while feeling that I was
committing a sacrilege.

I walked to the dumpster
like a thief stealing 
someone's groceries.

I dropped the bag in
next to an abandoned 
flower pot. 

When I slammed shut
the door to the dumpster,
it echoed like
a prison cell closing
around my heart. ​

-previously published in NH Council of Teachers of English Newsletter



Cockroach Boy


The boy sat in his French Catholic
school uniform on the front steps
of his family's small apartment
playing with cockroaches
he kept in empty match boxes.

Curious to see how he used
his little living toys in a game,
I squatted down and smiled
at him, but an ocean between
us caused him to pick up his
insects, put them away in their
small homes, go back inside,
and leave me looking at a closed door. 

-previously published in Apeiron Review