Monday, May 22, 2017

chase you into the west wing and 
lock your ghost into a room
conveniently located inside my fingertips.

do not let anyone see, do not let her 

see, do not speak 
of the specter pacing. forget 
the room, forget the finger tips, 
dead weight, a phantom limb, you still
fuck me with her hand sometimes and hold me
with her body sometimes and possessed,
i wake guilty.
it has been a year and i have done
pretty well biting my tongue.
crawl away with my lion woman, dappled with freckles. 
warm love, good love, easy like honey.

i have been holding my words like
fumbling stacks of firewood, 
in my dreams we are burning, 
we are boiling. 


Wednesday, May 10, 2017


you're waiting to hear about the windows

in the farmhouse
you used to dream of 

and if the saran wrap proved true during the rainstorm.
if something has
leaked in or leaked out, if the mist is trapped
inside the glass
or just hanging on your stoop like
condensation.
 
my fingers are longer now so i 
wear more rings to weigh them down, 
i'm speaking
to the opposite wall again,
a one sided conversation
directed at the bedroom.
she treats me well, kisses me straight, 
and that is good, stalking the property line like
"this will do just fine."

perhaps we cannot smell blood this time because
no one is bleeding
and that is good.
your soft safe canopy love,
is it everything you dreamed
when you were young?

Sunday, April 30, 2017

lions

paint indifference over my body like red shellac, 
like dipping into 
candy apple sugar.
can you feel the hesitation knotted in my stomach? 
can you feel yourself
inside of me?
we are not too different
you and i.

when i see a picture on the internet of two lions 
fucking 
i think of you.
not because of greygold mane or the sweat beaded
on your stomach 
but because of retracted claws and yowl, 
mewling kittens,
battering rams 
and you holding onto me like a lifejacket.

when i see two rats on the subway tracks
tearing each other apart, i think of you 
and i
tearing each other apart.
hold my sex in your cupped palm
like holy water.
lap at me with your lion tongue,
i will be as hard as candy apple,
twice as sweet.

Tuesday, April 25, 2017

terra preta

the dogs, the dogs,
tiny rips to the bottom of my stomach and i know
enough not to trust anything that does not immediately
come with bared teeth.
the problem is
you come immediately with bared teeth
and it does not frighten me.
i know what it is to be bitten.

like an apple, baby,  i guess this means you have taken something
from inside of me.
intimacy as a civil war, which is to say 
that i care enough to revolt.
we sit on your bed and eat cake, 
     the city
     burns outside.

you like girls who are easy to swallow,
malleable in mouth, ones who melt on your tongue.
consumed, glittering,
i know enough to keep you hungry,
even if it means i also starve.
the villagers in rebellion, 
our fingertips caked with ash, 
manna and rain water, terra preta, 
find me buried with fish bones 
and charcoal
in your backyard, let me in through the screen door 
and wash the mud off with your hair, 
     terra preta
     dead soil turned fertile
     by hands.

i am good at broken things,
have i warned you of this?
     i am not a garden.
     i am a maelstrom,  
do you know what i do?
i come back from the dead.

Tuesday, April 4, 2017

"why don't you ever let me be gentle with you?"

we have been playing this new game lately, 
the one where we are nice to each other. 
defense mechanisms lay 
dissected on the bedside table next to your glasses
and i can no longer remember 
intimacy as a weapon.

we have been playing this new game lately, 
the one where i spend the night 
and do not disappear even once.

so we have nice sex
and i let you inside me without your anger, i smooth the bedsheets
in my sternum, adjust pillows, i let you
simmer into me slow. 
you look soft.
you slide soft.
i arch,
feel like mother earth swallowing you up.
like fertile ground,
like female ground.
  we brew peach tea and i 
throw the shutters open,  
air the house out.

Friday, March 31, 2017

i had a dream you died.

i screamed
at the memorial, collapsed, crumbled, i was wearing a 
Disney T-shirt and 
nag champa incense permeated the room. it was half 
opium den and half high school
auditorium and
moratorium and your face plastered on projector, aromatic haze, the kind of breathing
which is not breathing, the kind of nightmare
without monsters.

they carried me out,
a drunken party guest,
a mourning village,
a room full of strangers, 
and me, tearing my clothes,
a weeping stranger.

Friday, March 24, 2017

what can be said about the heavy snow and conversations 
weighted on eyelashes?
what can be said about the red stripe scar of forgiveness 
and how it itches with the healing, 
how it aches with the changing of the seasons and
how it burns, still, of course.

relearn how to rehold hands like a language 
grown rusty without use, feel the way the tongue fumbles 
over words. 
how new love 
is a combination of old love
rearranged into new shapes. 

how i introduce my eyes to a pair of folded
round glasses on the bedstand, 
how i know it is arriving, 
how i knew it must.