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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”

  • “I am prepared now to force clarity on you.”

     

    –Louise Gluck

  • if you can’t stop time, lean into it.

  •  

     He pointed to his name tag, “I’m Orion.”

     

    Marisol yelled from across the room, “XXX thinks he can be the constellation that attracts his true love to him.”

    Part 2: How did you get here?

     

    “a question marked swallow hungry for an answer.”

     

  • 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.
    when we met,
    you had a large bruise on your
    right arm
    and I don’t know where
    I got it.

    you are careful.
    I am unsure what to say.
    I don’t either. 

     

    I begin to tell her a dream.
    he begins to tell me a dream.
    I am in the middle of a forest.
    it feels wet, dark and cold,
    at night but it starts turning
    into maybe dusk.
    I guess dawn but it feels like night is coming
    right around the corner.
    she is in front of a fire
    on a log, there are logs set
    out like it’s camp
    or there are others expected.
    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 her.
    but like also her child.
    like, I mean, if she was
    a child.
    walking up,
    hands out saying
    be careful what you say.
    and then I just wake up.

    and then wake him up

    “datura moon” or “the story of us”

  •  

    there are two giant
    bruises on each thigh.
    I am careful not to hit them
    with my fingers except
    I already have
    and I shriek.
    you don’t even ask.


    I spent most of my time
    that late winter
    searching.
    what you would say:
    combing through options,
    in flux and in search of
    weight.
    and some guy,

     a stranger
    in my house, said to me
    after I had given him reiki
    for money, for rent,
    for phone bill,
    smirking on my apartment floor:
    “Smile.” and added.
    “What do you look like naked?”
    and added
    “How much to see?”

    and I stood tall and robust
    like a weed in Kensington’s
    concrete garden:
    stepped on but
    won’t go away
    and  then
    suddenly growing
    into a gun.
    not only that,
    but suddenly
     making rent.
    fuck.
    ok.

    you don’t even ask. 

    “doors #5”

  •  

    when you look at me
    you see a long hallway,
    you see a pointy
    knob, you see
    a mutable exit,
    opening to close
    and over
    and over
    and over.

    “affection #2”

  •  I know I’ll always be ok.
    by purpose, my name
    will be forgotten. my real name.
    I am thinking back.
    if you can’t keep up,

    this is winter 2014. but it is also
    winter 2017.
    it is also summer 2020.

    the day I arrived in the hotel
    in the financial district of New York

    to meet a Russian photographer
    who promised me a night in an expensive
    suite and a binding contract
    that has been violated over time
    without my awareness,
    my nails were painted
    blue to match my
    bruised knees.

    spread more, all the
    way.

    I thought that was
    cute. he gave me a fishnet
    black onesie I ripped a hole
    in but wear on dates
    to remember us by.
     and even though
    he took advantage of me
    and you felt betrayed
    by some unshaved labial
    part of me,
    I made my half of rent
    for once.

    in the car from the bus
    stop on my smile
    spread and the bickering

    couldn’t dissuade
    the new confidence.
    the way money feels
    in an envelope.

    ok, chill.
    fuck, I got rent.

    “doors (#4)”

  • the third is ennui.
    you become overcome
    with a sudden fatigue.
    almost as if you are floating
    through it all
    but not as happy or light
    as that. like you’re being
    controlled by a beam.
    it’s more terrifying the
    grip this new surrender has.
    your arched back,
    your upward gaze,
    some kind of nothing
    and the laughter is braying:

    so deep and directed
    at you.

    “ennui”

  •  At three pm,

    I show up to confession,
    just my tourmaline in
    hand, hair covered
    and I begin.

     

    “intermission”

  • the first card I pull is the Magician.
    say nothing about it.
    my couch is stained from cat vomit
    and chocolate ice cream
     and smells
    like fresh linen spray.
    I am uncomfortable
    at all times, at all
    hours of every day
    and this is no exception.
    I am trying not to look in
    the mirror behind  you and
    focus on the red wine in the glass,
    bottle on altar, not comment
    on eye color, guess placements without
    ado, turning over cards to let you
    know.

     

    I try to explain to someone one day
    what I am seeing in the mirror.
    no one is there, I say this first
    to myself on a walk
    around, pass a little girl in pink dress.
    fuck.
    a haze, like a fog surrounding my body
    begins to build and my voice,
    almost like it’s been previously
    recorded and then played back,
    comes through me and I have to
    repeat what she says.
    but sometimes the track is off
    so I am two seconds ahead of myself
    and it’s hard to watch.

     

    wait, stop, back
    up. I’m muttering I think.
    too complex.
    stop myself when her brother looks.
    no, don’t tell him that.

    Australia looks better than Alaska.
    that’s all I say.
    we have some wands between us.
    that’s all.
    keep it to myself:
    predicting
    deaths of
    others
    and also
    practicing
    hugging people
    when they walk
    in the room.

     

    “the magician”

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