the air tonight
is still— a wizard
not a fleck of wind, only cricket fish
chirp sailing, balloon tails wasping
out and in, lifting water, smooth
filet of moon between gills
our patio is an aquarium
fins and lips eclipsing stucco, drifting leaves
mojave fish crickets invisible—
little wizards
in the trees.
little heartbreak
At the pet store on Tropicana
tiny new mouse, eyelids
unopened, a little olive
lying in the straw.
A corner of thistle
for his snout and curled tail.
The smallest wind for his ribs
that press gently from underneath
his skin, up and down, and up and—
He’ll be dead before the night comes
says the woman who works in the store.
He’ll have passed before the spider eats him.
Why doesn’t the tarantula eat him now?
He’s saving him, the woman says.
He’s saving him for later
when no one’s around.
About the author:
I grew up in California and have since enjoyed living and traveling in various parts of the world. I am currently in the MFA program for poetry at the University of Nevada, Las Vegas.
