I look back turning my head

and I see myself


on a concrete island between rapid


where white lights bled into white lights

and red blurred into red

cars swarming like shiny


on a dry summer day


their buzzing was incessant

the tires and the horns and the voices

I was a castaway in a tall city

that never loved me


and I knew then with my

parched throat and wide eyes

that these creatures would

eat me alive

and my bones would bleach

in the sun


I knew then I’d never belong

that there would never be an Amy-shaped


only silvery skyrises and

subways snaking underground

with a love I’d never


freddy 8.14.14

he unhinged each rib, prying them open

with such tenderness, scooping up my tiny

heart, a baby bird, which cooed

and cried and shivered from

a broken wing



humming as he worked

he mended and soothed and breathed life

back in as I watched, with my chest

hanging open and heavy



and I heard it,

the sweet coo and squeak

and I saw it

leaping from his hands and taking flight

and I felt it

soaring circles around my head, singing for joy

for joy, for joy, I could cry,

so I do



I’m alive, I whisper

me too, he says and I hear it in his voice

the flutter of wings inside him, and I see us then,

a pair of doves, in love with this life

and each other