Poems About L

Culture is not the museum. Culture is the grandmother who won't let you leave without eating.

The world decided to start over last night.

There's a word for the way your coffee cup still sits on the second shelf where no one else would put it—

He's always there when I arrive—waiting, with my face but not my certainty.

I didn't know I was looking until I found you—the way you don't know you're cold until someone hands you a blanket.

Korea is a peninsula— land reaching into water like a hand trying to touch something.

Under the lights every town is the same town.

They call it the beautiful game and they're wrong— it's the desperate game.

She wasn't required to love me this much. That's the thing about aunts.

She walks like she knows something the room doesn't.

City of shoulders, Sandburg said, and the shoulders are still here—broader now, more tattooed, still carrying what needs carrying.

The trees are undressing in public again—no shame, no apology, just color falling like confessions too beautiful to keep.