Reverse Musical Chairs
Reverse Musical Chairs, first published by Stoneboat Literary Journal (March 2019), read by Billy Collins on The Poetry Broadcast (9 September 2021).
Sundays at noon
for years
at my mother’s table with eight chairs
the seven of us sat.
We’d take our usual seats
and there was always room
for another.
That winter
the six of us struggled
to find our spots at the same table
among the eight original chairs
despite my father’s permanent absence
leaving room for two.
This afternoon
the eight chairs remain
waiting round the same table.
There are only five of us left.
My mother took the music with her;
no one can find a seat.
Poets
after Russell Edson’s “Angels” and featured by National Poetry Writing Month (April 2026)
They have little use. They are best at the apex of ferment,
when governments dare to be through with them.
Use words, for fellow humans . . .
They fate lies by deeply looking at what matters,
their dregs left for philistines.
Sometimes they have been said to inspire a man to do more with his life than he might have.
But what is there for a man to do with his life?
. . . They turn, brutally, myth to true phrase.
When they cry out grit, it makes some screech a whiny twinge; the lie of a fact. Shotguns hear it . . .
Carrying the Ashes
after Billy Collin’s “Directions”
You know the granite chunks on the beach,
the ones you see from the dinghy,
the ones that wend their way to
the path?
And you know how if you follow the path
up the steepest part of the slope
and climb up into the woods you might
have to grab hold of saplings until
you come to the raspberry patches, picked over
by each of us every summer
right under the grove of tall pine, dripping now
with grandfather’s beard?
And farther on, you know how the path
twists to the left and narrows between juniper
and if you go beyond that you arrive
in the clearing with the long stone ridge
bordered by the small field
followed by the big field that tumbles
right back down to the sea
just to the left of the cabin
where there was the singular chair?
That’s a fine place to stop
and catch your breath.
Of course, the journey’s best done with
your hands free. But you know when
you have a load to carry and your hands are so full
you can’t even grasp a sapling?
Just remember that the beginning of the path
is the steepest and, with each step,
the raspberries are getting closer.
And it helps if you have someone
to chat with when you take breaks
and can switch the load from one to the other
up the path to the singular chair.
So, let me know before you set out next time.
I’ll row the dinghy and you can put your hand
on my shoulder as we cross the granite chunks.
Bring a bowl for the raspberry patch
and I’ll bring an old blanket
and we’ll nibble away an afternoon
where there the singular chair once sat
and catch our breath.
My Math
My Math was a finalist in the Voice of Peace: International Poetry and Short Story Anthology Competition 2021.
In my math, division wouldn’t exist
since we’ve had enough of that already.
Same goes for multiplication,
since things can get out of hand quickly.
Subtraction’s little losses of keys and socks
and its unacceptable taking away of
species, cultures, and loved ones, would stop.
In my math, we’d stick to addition,
take into account everyone and everything
and there’d always be room for more.
When the Dish Ran Away With the Spoon
When the Dish Ran Away with the Spoon was read by Scott “Renzo” Renzoni on The Lenox Bookstore’s broadcast in May 2023 and long-listed by Billy Collins for the Fish Poetry Prize in 2022. It appears in both of my poetry collections, GALOSHES (2020) and POLLYWOGS (2025). (The correct format in couplets might not appear on a phone…)
It’s one thing to be asked to picture a cat with a fiddle,
or a cow jumping over the moon, but when I get to the part
about the dish running away with the spoon, I get stuck.
Everyone knows that spoons dig bowls, not dishes,
and that dishes are best forked, not spooned.
I imagine two doomed misfits stopping mid-flight
for a brief break in the moonlight. When Spoon turns to Dish
for a furtive kiss, the jumping cow’s shadow descends
upon them as the cat plays Prelude to a Kiss on his fiddle
until the little dog giggles into a fit of laughter at the aftermath.
When to Flip the Pancakes
When to Flip the Pancakes, shortlisted for the Fish Publishing Prize (2021), published in Stoneboat Literary Journal 12.1 (May 2022)
While I make a fat stack of pancakes, my son
throws his little arms around my thighs and asks,“Where did Mittens go when she died?”
I lift him to my left hip. We hold each other close
as I ladle more batter onto the buttered pan.
We watch and wait in silence, missing the cat,
until backward bubbles pock across the tops,
tiny signs signalling the time has come
to flip the pancakes. I hand him the spatula
and nod. He has to twist his whole arm but
accomplishes it first flip and whispers,
“Good thing the other side is golden,”
and I hope he’s right.
How to Choose Haiku
“Are you a goddess?”
bee asks cherry tree—and she
bursts into blossom.
“So, Mom.
What do you think
of my haiku?”
I ask into the air.
A bee answers,
by biting
the back my knee,
like that time,
under the cherry tree,
when she taught me
to write haiku
by choosing to love
every single thing—
even the sting.
Letter to myself, aged 8, from Heart Island, Penobscot Bay, Maine
written April 2026 after Joanna Ingham’s "To My Mother, Aged 10"
You will not be a lighthouse keeper
who feeds herds of seals
off the rocks on Penobscot Bay.
Some siblings will tease you.
Don't cry; your sheets, though glued,
won't really catch on fire.
No matter what they do,
you will still be you.
There will be piano, accordion,
and drum lessons;
you will never master any of them,
but music will always make you dance—
even on the occasional coffee table—
as constant proof
that you’re still you.
As for school, your only F, ever,
will be in French, in college.
You will get kicked out of college.
You will go to France,
get a master's in French,
and fall madly in love with France
and, believe it or not, school—turn into
a teacher, if you stay you.
In fact, you will fall madly in love,
regularly. Your heart will break
and mend, regularly. You will drop
your job, family, and country
to marry a watchmaker and follow him
to all that tea in China.
This will be the best decision
you will ever make, if you stay true
to yourself and remain you.
You will have the same best friends
for over fifty years.
There will be work as a camp counselor,
teacher, volunteer, translator,
Forex trader, lifeguard, chambermaid,
and in the subway in Paris.
There will be a plane on fire.
You will be fine.
There will be cancer and surgeries,
a burst artery, and hemorrhages.
There will be a crash, followed by
a double funeral.
You will be fine. Grandma is right;
you come from good stock.
All this, you will get through,
so long as you stay true to you.
There will be a daughter.
There will be an angel baby.
Then there will be a son,
and you will wrap your soul
around them, carry them
with you wherever you go
every millisecond of every second
with a love you never knew
was possible inside the true you.
Come one summer evening,
in more years than you can count
on your fingers and toes,
just before your hard-won dinner,
after a perfect Maine day
fishing off of Heart Island,
overlooking Penobscot Bay,
you will hear the seals’ hungry bark,
and you will scamper—
as best as you can, in the dark—
down the rocks to see lighthouse beam
on seals' heads bobbing in the waves.
And you, Dear One, will feed them
your entire catch of the day,
knowing all your needs are met.
Feeling satisfied with your life,
in deep you’ll breathe, then breathe out,
“Phewwwww!”
and thank this life you’ve lived as you.
The Clean Plate
The Clean Plate, first published by Crab Orchard Review (Dec. 2019), read by Billy Collins on The Poetry Broadcast (23 Nov. 2021).
You just grew up.
Just like that.
Just now, sitting at the table
while I had my back turned
to stir the stew.
Just gobbled down all your crusts
as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
I cannot believe
you ate all the crusts, already.
If I’d seen this moment coming
yesterday, at breakfast, when
they were still inedible and evil,
I’d have saved those last crusts
with your little teeth marks, shellacked them
and glued a picture of you,
right then, in the middle.
And What Are You Going to Be, Little Girl?
As best as I can see,
I answer them, I do.
Each time I answer differently,
each time I tell the truth.
But I really wish that grownups
wouldn’t ask what I will be.
It’s clear that at this moment,
they are they and I am me.
I can’t imagine why it is
they think that I should change.
(Maybe they are bored
and in need of fun and games.)
I could be a bank robber,
so long as I’m not caught.
If I were not afraid of heights,
I’d say astronaut,
glazier, or trapeze artist—
but all those jobs are UP.
Maybe be a dog walker;
I love the little pups,
but I’m afraid of barks and bites,
so that’s not gonna work.
Or something with initials
that comes with all the perks,
like CEO, CFO, or maybe HHR,
but I don’t know what they do—
it all seems fetched and far.
I could be a watchmaker,
if I could turn a screw.
Teachers and peacemakers
require public speaking;
when I do that in front of class,
I feel my tongue is leaking.
So, next time someone asks
what it is I want to be,
I’ll suggest that they stay them
and I remain just me.