Loss, Felt

Do not worry for our sake- we who gather here to mourn
will outlast this coming tempest, will survive this passing storm.
When all the cities crumble, and the word of doom is spelt,
the last lips speak of loss, and your loss is equally felt.

Now sleep! Rest your head within the earth, shielded from the sun –
and sorrow,
which was stitched upon your soul,
will no more greet you on the morrow.


This poem was originally written for a puppet’s funeral.

Airplane Curry

We see it pushing through the tube,
plastic boxes, nearly medical, labelled with numbers or barcodes or
Something in-between, something few understand.
Chicken thrown to starving wolves
eagerly pawing white lids –
now, bleached rice, clammy and squirming.
Pale meat stained with the milk of highlighters,
this sickly paste,
Gone too soon.


What’s the deal with airplane food?