White Box

At the age of eight I did not know

what a hearse was and what it drove.

I stood in front of a long, white box

but I could not look at you because

the last time I saw you was outside my house,

you asked to borrow a bottle of ketchup.

I called you outside the very next day

and you did not come out.

You were not there.


You swore to me your mailbox

was the only white you’ll ever ride

for it was your steed, your companion,

to all the adventures we went on together.


And yet you laid there

in a white box within a white box.

They told me you were sleeping.

They told me to say goodbye.

You will not be waking up.


How to Make a Sandwich

I was told this was

the way to a man’s heart:


  1. Put on an apron and tie up your hair.
  2. Lock yourself in the kitchen for hours on end.


  1. Take out a loaf of bread, and slice it in two.
  2. Spread the butter inside, nice and even on all sides.
  3. Put the lettuce, the tomatoes, one on top of another.
  4. Add their choice of meat; ham, bacon, or chicken.
  5. And then slide everything into the toaster oven.


  1. Serve them the sandwich while it’s nice and hot.
  2. Keep quiet as they go on about their day.
  3. Clean up when they’re done.


It is their world, after all.

You are but a woman.

The Hawk’s Lullaby

And still the hawk believed

he was not alone

in the treeless jungle

he built his nest on

for there were beasts

of the most unnatural forms

speeding and honking

and flying and falling

all around him.


They cried as he did

a cry unlike his,

booming and loud

and deafening.


They cried all day

and all night,

all the same pleas.

I am alone.

I am alone.

I am alone.


I am not,

the hawk thought

as he towered above them,

miniscule in size.

Not of the same feathers,

but of the same fears,

he slept in the comfort

of all of their tears