I. Time travel to the past through these still hot ashes tethered to a place and time now unrecognizable. The history: you remembered by you as shovels sift through.
II. Under blankets sweat. The waking abrupt. Dried bouquets hung upside down from a nail in the attic stairway.
III. One day there was a disappearance. Then there was a year. Then there was a sickness. Then the heft the cortisol had packed on dissipated a slow relief.
IV. Vu ja de something familiar happens but it seems new
V. Out on the beach the line between apparent in the slope. Sand from each length of shore keeps in glass ornaments. The plastic ones melted together redefining geography. Edges slowly collided. The line between no longer clear.… ...continue reading
Fires raged across the land. Trees were not just destroyed—they were consumed and reborn in flame. Blood splattered the ground like paint hurled by a madman. Men were drenched in it, head to toe. Few of us remained standing. Archers moved forward alongside us, bows raised like skeletal arms reaching for the sky. As we charged, they stayed behind—for support, for distance, for precision.
We were outnumbered—six thousand against at least fifteen thousand. The French could surround and crush us with ease.
In moments, we closed in on the heart of Agincourt, where French soldiers poured out like a living waterfall—except this one bled. Their uniforms, emblazoned with white crosses, blurred together in the frenzy. As we neared the fort, a deafening cry burst from within.… ...continue reading
A guy I worked with at the BSU Bookstore got behind me in line at Quiznos. This was the Quiznos across the street from Boise State. April 2008. I was about to graduate; my mom had been laid off from her loan-processing job and W. was sending everyone spending money. Trying to give the economy a kickstart. I wasn’t worried about it. My concern was getting lunch in the hour I had between class and my shift at The Bookstore.
That Quiznos no longer exists (just like every Quiznos) but back then it was a happening campus lunch spot. They had a patio, line out the door most days from noon to one.
They toasted their subs for those who don’t remember.
The spoon is still on the table, its small mirror holding the ceiling. Nothing dramatic happened just a chair pulled back and a silence learning a new shape.
You taught us that history eats quietly, that angels prefer basements, that the ordinary object is already a confession.
Somewhere, a fork listens to a war it cannot stop. A shoe waits for its foot like a thought refusing certainty. God is not absent, He is distracted.
You knew how laughter survives the century, how terror keeps house inside the refrigerator, how a poem can be a joke told to the dead that they understand immediately.
Now the world continues without permission. A streetlight flickers. A man misunderstands his life. The universe shrugs and means well.… ...continue reading
Come here kitten, help me fix the problems again. The sorrow and tangible sense of illusive confusion. Make them go away for a minute. There it is. The body resonant. An internal salve. I wrote this poem once already. The eyes, tinted glass, stain the mind. Today dark red. Yesterday a more placid indigo. By slight variations console the day into a rest from fervor. Forgiving the self for its knotted essence. The judge sinks into the couch, tired. The visibly sick deserve forgiveness but those comrades closest merit not. Collapse it all with a single blow of the hammer, if you will, though it has weathered worse fury and torment than this mind can muster. Stain the days as they must be stained. Unforgiving rain, cleans the cicatrices.… ...continue reading
At 42 years old, married and in good health, some doctor sucker punched Ephraim Scott Sommers with a diagnoses of type 1 diabetes, a chronic autoimmune disease that requires constant monitoring: “a half-inch needle which is, right now, buried in my soul and giving me an important but boring reading of my current blood sugar.” The parade of medical equipment and doctor jargon is comical, but the very real threat of dying stains each page of Diabetic Gumdrops. Even with medical insurance and a loving wife, the destructive force of this disease is shown to be awesome and absurd, a war that will likely continue until his death, and this battle requires advanced weaponry: “Dexcom, G-7, Patch, and Sensor…heart pills and vitamins and insulin pens and monitor kits and boxes of glucagon.”… ...continue reading
Lily stood in the bay window of the living room looking out at the street. She had her arms crossed over her chest, and the thumb of each hand tapped the taught muscle of the opposing bicep. She tapped her right foot in perfect timing with her thumbs.
Her son, Henry, stood beside her. He was seven and small for his age, barely able to see over the loropetalems outside the window. He did not have his arms crossed over his chest. He did not tap his thumbs or his foot. Although it couldn’t be guessed from his posture, he was ready to run and throw his arms wide and hug.
Then Malcolm’s Lexus emerged from beyond the Freis’ privet hedge three houses down. It came on swiftly, and then Malcolm braked suddenly, as if almost forgetting that this was his house, and turned into the driveway.… ...continue reading
