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  • “Name your torture,”
    one of them said
    with a wink.

    I wanted an orchard
    but I swallowed the vodka
    he handed me
    willingly.

    “The Gorge”

  • Corollary:

    n.

    1: a proposition inferred immediately from a proved proposition with little or no additional proof
    2a: something that naturally follows : 
    … love was a stormy passion and jealousy its normal corollary.— Ida Treat

    b: something that incidentally or naturally accompanies or parallels
    A corollary to the problem of the number of vessels to be built was that of the types of vessels to be constructed.— Daniel Marx

  • “when the terror becomes unbearable,
    the other becomes God.”
    –Louise Gluck

    confinement can be comfortable.
    felt familiar in
    the grip of load:
    my chains hung from me
    like the tail
    of my self-throned
    coronation robe

    when I hoisted myself
    on self and made policy about it,
    my divination crumbled in it’s cell.
    started at my temples,
    made my crown;
    the veil that obscured
    the trail of my widow’s march
    following the scent and
    stepping lightly down the roads
    that my men roamed further apart
    from each other to leave me
    in pieces in rows in their
    new lovers’ homes.
    on a shelf,
    freshly dusted,
    gilded by the yellow dust
    of whatever stamen she picks.
    I was mired in sudden freeze,
    then implosion,
    then retraction of amends
    and I came

    full at them
    hook in mouth like
    hungry lure.

    “the pond”

  • this next section is called COROLLARY

  • Part 3: The Act of Taming Things

    “Being born again and again has ripped your smile into pieces.”

    –Adrienne Rich

  • I have three cuts through
    the devil on my leg
    and a small bruise
     to the right of it,
    a large bruise on
    my left thigh and
    when we met,
    you had a large mark on your
    right arm that looked
    like someone had grabbed you
    and I don’t know where
    I got it.

    you are careful.
    I am unsure what to say.
    I don’t either.
    I gesture to myself,
    I mean to mine.

    I begin to tell her a dream.
    he begins to tell me a dream.
    I am in the middle of a forest
    and she is in front a fire
    and all she says is
    wait, be careful
    what you say
    and holds her hands up.
    she kind of walks towards me.
    she is young but
    but like also like her child.
    like she is her daughter.
    she is walking up,
    she is wearing a long white
    pj gown and has long hair,
    hands out saying
    be careful what you say.
    and then I just wake up.

    and then wake him up.

    but then there’s someone else
    on a brown horse
    looking up at a tree;
    it’s night and the branches
    enclose like he is in a web or a
    dome and asks a squirrel
    in a tree
    what time is it?
    turns around.

    I say: It’s time.

    and then wake him up.

    “datura moon” or “the story of us”

  • once, after a meeting
    a woman went up to another
    woman and told her it was
    inappropriate to share about
    her rape.
    I was sitting on the gray couch
    debating having an eighth
    cup of coffee when they
    both turned to me
    for support.
    I used to think there were
    rules. rule #1

    KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT.

    “raped”

  • paralyzed by fantasy, ask
    what’s the weirdest thing about
    me? it’s in my head.

  • I’ve strained everything I’ve ever
    owned in my life
    including my eyes
    so I can’t see
    your car is gone,
    the way life unfolds
    without interference,
    or the ant hill I just stepped on.
    your sad smile when I
    didn’t notice the grinning
    contingency roses;
    contingent on whether or not
    you decided to start shit.

    the boxes in the corner,
    cat’s nascent urinary problems,
    the missing incense holder,
    empty toilet paper roll,
    your mordant note, or
    the last piece of vegan toffee.
    the ants plotting their revenge
    in the corner,
    the forgotten ice cube on the floor,
    your wilting gray shoulders
    as you slump into the green plush
    armchair you detested
    that I brought home,
    cat vomit somewhere in the cushion.
    your face down in study materials
    as if I am brick
    or limpid fume, a
    backdrop to this impulse
    and you can’t hear my muffled feelings
    about where our
    stuff should go.
            (back to Boulder)
    I can’t see

    the sunset in the distance,
    self-will run riot,
    God’s sweeping fingers,
    or further than my
    remarkably dry nose turned back at
    you; yesterday wet with
    the tears from your verbal incision,
    now clear, i’m numb.
    my scrawny legs hanging off the
    coffee table quoting McCarthy
    to turn you on:
    “nobody wants to be here
    and nobody wants to leave.”

    “the canopy”

  • don’t tell anyone what i did to you.
    don’t tell anyone what i did to you.
    don’t tell anyone what i did to you.
    don’t tell anyone what i did to you.
    don’t tell anyone what i did to you.
    don’t tell anyone what i did to you.
    don’t tell anyone what i did to you.
    don’t tell anyone what i did to you.

  • you are hiding your scoliosis
    in poses, grown
    restive inside.
    you have high heels on
    and are menstruating
    plainly
    despite him.
    stop trying to 

    make love to the camera,
    just act normal
    but also like you
    just discovered aging
    and you are a prison
    of adjustable skin. 
    look surprised by time.
    and could you do it akimbo,
    but
     only with your hip bend
    and your eyes?

    I am a red flour beetle
    but less menacing
    and standing
    in a half pirouette
    remembering to also
    tuck my waist inside my
    breath.
    and do it just with my hip
    bend and my
    eyes
    yesss
    but

     I need to see just the nipple,
    so pull your shirt that way.
    don’t look at it,
    look at me.
    chin up,
    legs crossed,
    bow-legged,
    let’s imply something here;
    don’t give the milk away.
    (laughter from one side).
    and don’t grin, it makes you look
    desperate.
    can you think of the most traumatic thing
    that ever happened between you and
     your best friend’s father?
    sometimes a flash goes off
    near my left eyelid.
    try to cry,
    or at least make the motions of crying,
    but then right before it hits–
    stop.
    call it a female orgasm.
    sometimes both go off.

    I am doing it with microscopic
    eyebrow gestures and
    no pants remembering
    to arch my back.
    MUCH better,
    he speaks to me
    this way, emphasizing
    my tiny victories.
    but now do it with just your
    breasts
    but also,
    don’t smile.

    your teeth are off-white
    and unmatched.
    and uncross those legs.
    can you turn to one side?
    I need a shadow that traces
    your buttox to tits
    and then  to vagina
    but I don’t want
    anything else in the shot.
    great.
    he speaks loudly
    with emphasis on
    certain words like
    put your PUSSY out.
    hips swiveled.
    head down.
    lips shut.
    I am in akimbo
    with just my hips and
    eyes putting my

    PUSSY out.
    and that’s tiiiime.
    I am hopping off the carton
    and shivering
    from the fan and
    the sensation of throb
    propels me to take the
    envelope from his hand
    as my ankles are
    cut from the straps
    of the boots and
    truthfully,
    everything hurts
    yessss 

    cool.
    i’ll call this one
    hunger,
    (laughter from one side).
    he is staring at a screen
    and I am expressionless,
    or not here.
    they feel so close.
    i’ll pay you a little more
    next time.
    you can walk, right?
    I can’t drive you after all,
    my wife just texted me.
    be careful.
    he tosses that.
    and you really should see a dentist
    about that front tooth.

    I am nodding,
    dispossessed but
    not evicted yet.

    “Happy International Women’s Day 3/8/2014”

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