I suspect Messi grew up

with your image imprinted in his mind,

lessons from your parabolic career

a mantra on repeat.


God put a ball in the net for you,

opened the gates to the final trophy hoist.

In the end you (they?) buried

you under mountains

of white power and other drugs.


You had crowds weeping,

and a nation believing –

they resurrected you to recapture glory

that never was to be.



What Would Tab Ramos Do?

You clutch

the flag to your shoulders,


A security blanket.

I clipped the image

from the paper,

aching with your finality –

your retirement.

I want to claim you directed play

from center midfield but

my memory is hazy.

I do remember that end, though.

The feeling of a fading dynasty;

the fear that US talent would follow.

You were there when few others were,

built the program with luck and passion.

The team’s absence this go ‘round

is almost too much

to bear.

Thoughts of Iggy

Golden light illuminates

your corner,

the twill of birds spills

in the open window.

I gaze at your space,

imagine the twinkling chirps

you’d respond with,

followed by the mad dash

to the top of your cage

for better volume.

Thoughts of the sugary upturn

to your song

makes me ache

with missing you.

Advice to a First Time Mom

I peek at memories from

this time last year,

a mewling bundle

just days old

in my care.


Doubts drowned me

like quicksand.

Never had I felt

so vulnerable

so inadequate.


Easy access to information

was my curse,

swirled the downward suck

into a frenzy.


I want to burst back into that skin,

tell that me:

Fuck ‘em all.

You’re gonna be fabulous.

I’ve Been Here Before*

The line beams through my mind,

the soundtrack to Tuesday night drives

up Morgan Canyon.


This isn’t the type of end

they crooned about.


I turn my gaze to the window,

watch the sky turn an orangish brown.


This silence was weaved in

distances and decisions;


our words shake with goodbyes.


*Title and closing line taken from Always by Blink 182.