the first feeling isn’t the deepest.
it’s shallow in fact. just a vanity;
studying the color of your eyes in
glimpse, not wanting to be
seen myself.

the water is peak warm and
I am alive. somehow.
despite witnessing the
death of a whole family;
mine, I am very much noticing
your eyes.

I saw this quote. I had written it long before I understood what it meant. shifting from one section of the Earth to the other without leaving my house, I read it again tonight.  “I am a boundary to something else, but I don’t know what.” I was a thread.

Soon after, we took a bath
in chamomile
and I told him
every scary dream I ever had.

 “the bath”

if you are lucky,
he notices scarlet on the top
of your tights
as you replace each page;
as you become the
walking lake flooding
the wake that held
you, and he becomes
the witness that love
is shaking sometimes
but still sharp,
inverted

and with purpose,
the utility that seizes
to deconstruct,
to create with its
generous efficacy;
make more of less,
make more of one solid square,
make moats of larger masses
retaining density

to protect.
not the surgeon
but the undulation:
the quiver of the knife
when the first wave
hits.

“4.“

later, he will show
you photographs
to prove you were
there.

3.

the one cut real low in the back
in the shape
of an obtuse
triangle.
I twist the straw into
crooked pieces
and tell myself things:
 make sure they know
  you are having
a real good time.
show your teeth.
hearty laugh
with belly and mouth and your
lips are stretched to the limits
like your social apathy.
show your full moon eyes
and hide.
hold your tonic like a wand;

fall asleep inside of
yourself
in the middle of
everything.

2.

one day I had a dream
you bit the head off of a blue jay
and spit it back into her nest.
when I asked why you said:
To prove you will never leave me.
here I  am,
on command about to run
across the canyon and
laugh real loud in my
skin tight
dress

FINISHED

good profile.

have never seen her hair .
she was
wearing a platinum blonde wig
when I met her and
then a brown one and then
a head scarf:
floral, purple, I
remember.

bangs peeking out but
the rest an
all black:
including dress,
boots and nails,
eyes lined like soot
tracing the chimney,
and she was a
studious observer,
a witch. 

or at least pretended to be.
told me she “burned a sigil”
for this and then she
licked her lips
(think about me)
touched her nails to her tongue
(listen to me)
ran her wet nails down
her neck
(wait for me)

and I’ve just been waiting.

“How guys save me in their phone #12”

round ass and
bright, blue eyeliner.

permanent ink stain on
left hand with a note
or symbol
or something of former
value–a reminder to her
and she is
brutally apathetic to a
male presence
of any kind.
postures.

she asked for the time and
is currently walking
away from me to
ask directions from
someone else.
she asked for the time
and turned around once more
to smile
before she asked him.

“how guys save me in their phone”

“Strength does not have to be belligerent

and loud.”

I derive so much from speech.

the license plate that careened into the pole

instead of me that night read

“ prisons” and

I knew instinctively how

he felt, no exchange.
there’s my moon.

and my Venus nestled in her

vindication, her frequent

illicit engagements kept dark

in that dusty

twelfth house.

i’m becoming a panacea of my own:

memory, tincture,

the fuss of first love,

dead flowers.

draw my speech
out of the older sutures:

undo, redress,
pamper the wounds .

think about it.

send you a letter.
A CLUE.

 reminding you to

think about it

she is out casting cars into ditches

while you cautiously wait

for lights to change.

you are holding selenite

in your pocket,
fingers curved like
my indelible smirk.

standing where they

are now

sitting and

wilting

in screams,

it was the way I asked

in a bit of a curtsy:

one more chance 

and they all lose their

breath just like that.

“the 12th house”