first, he showed me the block
waving his hands over black ice,
concrete and gritted
      you know how to make things work

I stepped carefully and he stepped
several feet ahead of me.
we did a loop between two identical
intersections and stopped in a booth so
he could pay for the affection:
a vegan milkshake to soften
the contrast between two
nearly identical snow-lit
worlds; two winters in two
time zones but one was green and blue
and foothill lined
and this one hung in the air:
gelid, tense, a dense and
mutable gray that changed from
partially cloudy to baiting fang
but what was more concerning is the
space between us
I slurped the vanilla coconut cream
from the plastic straw without making
eye contact or anything known
and he laughed at the things
that just rolled off my tongue
in allayed fits of consternation.

 it was January fifth,
the middle of a
polar vortex and I hadn’t seen
the center of the city yet,
or west or anything but
Kensington.
I kept mumbling about the
loose trash with no cans
and he smiled, irritated at
my constant observation and unsure
of how to handle any turbulence inside
of me coming out in
fractured vocabulary,
light perturbation that I would
eventually learn to craft
and bank
but my nose was running so
I spent the evening
in silence wiping it,
trembling    cradled in
his iron abdomen in a way
that played it off as if
I was just cold.
he mistook
each tremor for the chill
settling in; a new house
that is, and I could feel
every sheath around me
crack like I just sprinted,
hit a frozen lake with my
cannonball skull heavy from
the weight of the unending pendulum
cracking at the edges begging
   think think think
and pieces of me began
to sink    fall deeper
into themselves.

and what else?

this is my 12th house.
 I wake up in his forearm
biting through his moles
to get to you.
 and what else?
you repeat and
I say something cute:

honey, dip a spoon into the
past you’re going to watch it
lick you.

“grief”

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

Create a free website or blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑

%d bloggers like this: