She works nights

The Distance Between Hibiscus and Midori

Read the poem at Shine International Poetry Series: July 29, 2026.

I write many a prompt poem on Substack via notes; so frequently, in fact, that I have a series collecting them. Every so often, though, I stumble into something that starts here, but feels more permanent.

She works nights was one of those poems. If you’re looking for places to submit, put Shine on your list.

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She works nights—
labeling blood
tubes in a basement
clinic where elevators
nictate like jet-lagged planets.

At home, she steeps
hibiscus in worn porcelain,
knowing reds should
stem from petals,
not apheresis.

Now thirty-eight,
she’s perfected
the art of staying
seated after
disappointment.

A neighbor practices
trombone from the terrace,
the same three notes—
loose cutlery tumbling
down the bulkhead.

Every Thursday at 3:30
she calls her mother
and lies with LinkedIn-
level puffery:

yes, eating healthy

yes, sleeping plenty

yes, loves me tenderly

The lead physician told her
stress starts in the liver—
algae bloom in stagnant liquor.

She pictures Midori
over ice.

The tea cools.
A thin skin spans it,
delicate as tempera.

She remembers being eleven,
pinning Chelan cherries
to chapped lips
to look glamorous
for no one.

Now, glamour means
paying rent by the first,
ignoring lewd 2 a.m. texts,
peeling a Satsuma
in late fall.

The Shetland pony beside her
cup is a Tuesday table
scrap. She means
to scrape it off,
to sketch it over,
but she needn’t beat
a dead horse.

She has loved men
with dazzling opinions
on thumbtacks.

Men who owned
one butter knife.

Men who said
you worry too perfectly.

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Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about our relationship with our lyrical offspring. It’s not a one-to-one to parenthood (I’d imagine), where you’re expected to love all of your children equally—I absolutely prefer certain poems. And the same was true when I was making music. I find it surprising which songs or poems readers/listeners gravitate to, especially when their favorites aren’t necessarily mine.

I’ve decided to stop opposing that. Just listen.

And when one of your favorite Substack poets tells you a poem is one of their favorites, you listen.

Craft note: when a poem is humming, there’s no need to explain the connective tissue between its images. Juxtaposition is natural tension. Move from hibiscus to blood to Midori to tempera without stopping to justify the route. Often, the leap contains the magnetism you’re after.

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