The neighbors have gone hunting again.
The fence is taller, but not tall enough
that we cannot see the clothesline-
dipping here and there
with white rabbits
Hung by their feet, tied with tinsel
and not a spot of blood on them.
It’s mid-fucking March-
I can’t believe I haven’t shot them.
The ambulance in the rear-view that makes you aware of
delicate bones & the crashing moments before flight.
You are too quick to find in there
the part where people grieve you-
you imagine coming to them
inside their heads
while they go to bed
thinking of you dead.
There is heat sliding over the air
there is always energy expelled
when something so large sinks-
when in the rear-view mirror
everything goes to hell.
I watched the explosion from my chair outside,
mesmerized by little paws, dancing all along the edge
of a wall
pushed out of hoof-chewed ground-
this is the way our town burns down.
Fire licks and whines along the edges
scarring streets and buildings-
our family home assumes the shape
of some small person
shrouded, crying
next to a house departed as ash.
It is the kind of winged migration
that rides the wind too far, too fast.
She held out a heart like a cold beet,
skinned & pickled, with two tiny hands
at the end of stems which held a little heart also,
with tiny hands which held another
on and on
through the blunt scene
of hearts hurled blindly down halls, against
rising water, against nail-dotted walls
against computer screens, against chests
sagging-
or slashed up,
against heaving, sweat-slick breasts…
we experienced a love that was new
there was at least that, if not the rest.
Thub-thub, the beet droned and its stammering-
it moved through us like hammering
as our animals lay down beside us, in gardens
or in grass- in a kind of memorial
we imagined their death
in terms of sacrifice & lest we forget
when we should have seen it coming,
seen them faltering & starving
neatly dropping at our feet while we ran on
without them…
not noticing their hearts were beat-
we had been running all this time without them.
Behind a sinking, healthy & back-lit sun
A sort-of-game played with your feelings
That is why you are this person.
One team wore white, like brides & napkins
Their lips shimmered dully
bruised stars
an aversion to thorns.
A second team is everything the first team could only hope to be
The team loves you, and their hearts match their red socks
and the way they held you
and still getting dust in your eyes
the sand kicked up to last, and last, and last…
You can’t imagine how they loved you into becoming this person.
Your split-lip self was a consolation prize
& You were not supposed to go down like that
& You are turning to face me in the library
And you do not show your face
it clings fast to your skull
your hand curling out of a cloak
into begging & being
the bloated fingers
of a man
who’s blue hand
has been swimming for days.
Out of a long list of lovers
Someone’s neck smelled like gingerbread.
Yes, it is possible for someone to follow you down the elevator
There is such a thing as laundry room etiquette-
flip through a magazine and know it.
There is half of a welcome mat outside my door
I put the other half where I jump off the balcony.
I am on the eighth floor and the squirrels still find me
They are welcome because I am nuts.
Learning not to be the best at learning by doing.
Learning to swim.
Staying under the radar, red lights
smoking & popping
& licking & wrapping around
the ankles of spooked calves-
slicing palm hearts
into quarters before halves.
Leaving without asking & before taking
Leaving with an ugly rash and more medication
Making friends with criminals
You walk the line, hypocritical
Your voice carries from here, reaching
a small child
left alone in a plastic pool
drowning in 3 inches of water
at low tide.
Starting from a chair in the corner of a room.
The chair is choked with ivy.
A tooth, blue with plaque and struck through with gold.
White gloves.
The slap of mud flung on a coffin.
A dead frog is placed under the chair, carefully.
Legs twitching.
I should just write on my face
EATS WHEN SAD-
The Sharpie would probably
Stick in my cheeks
I’m sick of the bubblegum girls
And their Ring-Pop tits
My tits are a backpack
In reverse-mode
My armpits
Have not made me friends
Well, it depends
Not on the subway, but
They’ve kept panzerottis
And take-out manicottis
Warm for a friend.
It takes just about all of me to pretend-
Because everything tastes bitter
But I eat it in the end.
this proud little home
bare ankles moving in
making it our own, jet-lagged
covered in sawdust
air mattress
giddy empty
possibilities.
the kitchen was perfect
cool barefoot and wine-drunk at night
pancake batter in the morning
shattered jam jars
lovemaking, jarring
little cuts and cereal boxes
clogging the pantry
even the glass bowl heaped high
with overripe mangoes
and underripe avocadoes
and outside a garden hose
black-eyed beetles
under a stone
who cares?
about an old painting
under the stairs
behind your ears
the sour smell
coming from
inside the furnace
in the corner
where the dog
we name and love
will
die in its sleep
impossibilities.
long live the martyr 