Seven Poems (July 20, 2011. Issue 29.)
I ONLY (May 20, 2010. Issue 17.)
Two Poems (April 20, 2010. Issue 16.)
Bodies of Water
Maybe it would be easier to write
I haven't thrown up into.
Baby, can you keep a secret in your unformed bones? Our secret is simple-- do not trust. Baby, can you grow your arms out long enough. Baby can you look good in hats. Baby, can you imagine your parents once as small as you are, eyes like envelopes opening so much, the fright, the trees so big, growing up to be a whole body. Making
the space for you inside it. Baby can you see yourself this way, can you forget what you know.
How to be Happy
Imagine you are a small stone. Now you are the child who puts the small stone in its mouth. And then the mother who fishes it out.
Imagine yourself a flower pot. Now the root touching the bottom. Now the flower that could grow larger if repotted. Now you are the pot again.
Imagine you are a bumblebee. Now imagine you are the cave the bumblebee is tasking in. Now you are the shoe that stomps both bee and cave (but you are not the foot). Imagine you are a Thursday. Are you also, in some small way, Wednesday? Or do you consider yourself Friday, since you will be in six hours?
Now you are a monster. And you are also what made the monster. And you are also what the monster ate for breakfast, which, by the way, is Cocoa Puffs.
Now imagine you are yourself eight years ago. Now imagine saying no instead of yes. Imagine saying yes instead of nothing at all.
Because of how I drink, I feel
What Will Happen
What will happen if I can't
Waiting for Rain
If you stay we can
The way you kiss me around
a word. Write to me only in French. Turn
to the kitchen in socks, wrapped up
cups will do. Come back with tea. Steam will
The Universe, Whatever
Something about us turning perpetually. Something
write you so much because I have nothing to say to anyone.
This summer seems to pull itself out into day after day, hour after hot hour.
but nothing ever comes of it. Lightning even peeks itself over tops
I hope for nothing. I need something else to write you about, but this heat
it out. Remind me of the roof, the powerless house, the clouds growing dark
loving you more, again. The choreography of our silence, where
window—this leg first, then that. Remind me of those summer floods.
Remind me how we would sometimes look in the mirror together, to see ourselves
That was the beginning of months. The discussions we had with the sky that summer,
But this summer I count you as the storm that never came,
I wake with the bedsheets balled around my head
so I don't have to smell whatever it is that’s coming
of six beers and you, who I swore I'd never taste again.
Outside, fields, tall weeds, and one car that drove slowly
my breasts pressed against the window. I wonder that now,
that I wake only with bedsheets.
My Adamant Refusal to Believe It's Not Butter
The smoke is so thick in the air it’s like butter.
It feels so good. It says, “Don’t worry, I’m not
roll arpeggios down your spinal cord? I refuse
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