[Originally published by Psaltery & Lyre Sept. 2017]

Sometimes I forget
that he counts sparrows and hairs.
That the enlargement of my forehead
follicle by follicle
did not escape the gaze of his all-seeing eye.

You would think I would stop losing my dog.
That she would stop bolting for open doors;
leaping over the fence, squeezing under, digging
her way out. That I would stop finding her nearby:
content, sniffing things, indifferent to my need
to protect her; to know what she is sniffing.

Last June, I took my grandmother
to a rose garden.
Walking back to the car,
we stopped to sit in the shade
of a vast cottonwood matriarch.
Little cotton tufts afloat all around us
at our feet and in our hair.
And she told me about her casket:

[Originally published in Dialogue Summer 2015]

What kind of monster spits a wad of gum in a urinal?
Blue. Brain-folded. 
Pregnant with identifying evidence.
DNA. Marks from teeth
that will long outlast the flesh.
Because a yellow rubber glove with a hand inside
with the hand of an eternal spirit inside of both
will have to fish that out of there.

[Originally published in Dialogue Summer 2015]

Even manna stops tasting sweet
after so many plates
I said to the Christmas ham,
endlessly succulent,
cold ceramic tile under my bare feet.
The ham stared back at me,
stark in refrigerator light,
oblivious to the lull between holidays
we both occupied.

Jesus entered Jerusalem as a King.
His conveyance was not a sedan chair,
an ornate carriage, or a black limousine.
It was a donkey.

[Originally published on lds.net Feb. 2015]

Shallmenknow is no talisman.
No hocus pocus
or abracadabra alakazam.
These are trinkets and chatter
bereft of power
expressing the form
denying the substance.

(Jack Stephen Bailey 1944-2014)

I.

We crossed the plains
In a brown station wagon
Imitation wood paneling on the sides
And vinyl seats that stuck
To our legs in the summer heat

[Originally published in Dialogue Fall 2013]

I.

“How much time do you spend gardening?”
I say.
My back fence neighbor's eyes are placid, patient,
riddled with cataracts, half blind.
They count the neat rows again.
His backyard is an Eden but with clothing.
An open-air produce department:
tomatoes, peppers, squash, carrots, and sugar peas.
An apricot and two peach trees.
And the grape vine climbing our common fence.

[Originally published in Dialogue Fall 2013]

I.

The intensive care unit had never seen such a hostess.
How was the show? And what did they serve?
We brought her primary stew,
a fresh fruit bouquet,
chicken salad, croissants, 
and raspberry scones.
She tried to feed every nurse and janitor on the floor.

[Originally published in Dialogue 2010]

The escalator broken again,
we climb the adjacent stairs
in wingtips and houndstooth slacks.
I peer into the guts of the silent machine.
It's always the same guy,
crouched over, sweat on his face,
wielding a flashlight and cursing,
pushing the same stubborn rock
up the same hill. 

[Originally published in Dialogue 2010]

This is where my mind wanders
behind this desk
bathed in soft monitor light.
This is where I levitate, oscillate, and glide
on five plastic wheels, a pneumatic column, 
lumbar support and everything.
This is where I pour yesterday’s lukewarm
water bottle on my mother-in-law’s tongue.

You were an island of stretched-out skin.
A shock of flesh bath water could not cover.

[Originally published in BYU Studies 2006 / Third Place, BYU Studies Poetry Contest, 2006]

It was picture day. Me: a first grader. I was all ready.
Hair combed. Shirt tucked in tight. Tie clipped on.                                                           
Mom’s orders were clear:
no getting dirty or messing up my hair,
no riding my bike,
no playing in the sandpile,
no playing outside at all.

[Originally published in BYU Studies 2006 / 2nd Place BYU Studies Poetry Contest 2006]

The accumulated things of the garage
the closets, the basement, under the bed
even the back of your bottom drawer
begin to clutter your thoughts too as
moving day approaches.
And moving is a cleansing ritual.
A time to purge the trifling. A sort of trial.

[Originally published on Popcorn Popping, 2006]

It takes a heartless person to find
amusement in the crazy people you
see in the city.
So you watch those who are probably fine, 
but there's no way of being certain.
The guy in spandex shorts, for example:
sometimes fluorescent green, the color
of sour candy, sometimes charcoal.
A tank top, good running shoes,
big headphones, the kind that cancel out
all ambient noise.

[Originally published on Popcorn Popping 2006]

Some pieces of plastic just know what they want to be
long before they are brewed in a pocked vat,
or birthed violently from mold to assembly line,
long before even the formula in some chemist’s folder.

[Originally published on Popcorn Popping, 2006]

I have entertained my share
of righteous fantasies.
Pious diets calculated
to burn off more of the world
than one takes in.
Goals documented
in the pages of now obsolete
organizational technology.

her warm pure eyes
red yellow red roses
climbing consuming
rise