“To live in this world you must be able to do three things:
to love what is mortal;
to hold it against your bones
knowing your own life depends on it;
and when the time comes to let it go,
to let it go.”
–Mary Oliver
“You are covering the cot
with sheets. I feel
no end. No end. It stalls
in me. It’s still alive.”
–Louise Gluck
everything I touch turns to compulsion
except for men I love
which turns to
“gone”
everything I touch turns to compulsion
except for men I love
which turns to
“gone”
if i was a man,
i’d have a big dick.
I got a nine millimeter, I say,
casually, waving my hand over the wooden
board. hidden in this house.
I got this house lined with weapons.
I place the orange butcher knife
on the linoelum counter,
scraps of tomato still clinging so
I can scoop the slug up from beneath the
dishwasher and put him
back in the shade.
he follows me out,
easily distracted.
we were having vegan charcuterie
and he is drinking chardonnay.
with me it’s always
something, plentiful,
homemade.
he’s seen half my knife collection
now and every inked guard;
the other half tucked in various places.
I gestured to the antique table,
to the pepper spray,
the hammer by the door.
I point out the ants
lining the sink.
swathed with charms,
I can’t kill a thing
and half the town has figured it out.
I wear my arms in
muscle, others’ biceps.
keep them around cuz
I can’t kill a thing.
point to the baseball bat.
show him my pearly growl.
this is where the poem begins
we both eye the slug moving
through the garden
til he disappears.
it’s 7:42 pm, 88 degrees and
the sun is out,
my shoulders dark.
we are both tan,
hurt, and silent.
we are two inches from each
other and I can’t help but
melt when the cool breath
hits my left cheek.
I’m plucking at the hem.
he grabs my hand
to stop my ticking.
what’s that?
he says.
this is where the poem begins.
they say I talk too much
and I’m inclined to agree.
perhaps I’ll
sew my chapped lips shut,
show them the scorpion etched
on my shoulder first and no one
has ever seen my childhood home.
1.
but I’m compromised
by the simple fact I think
I might be a ghost so I’m
always checking mirrors
and calling 911, waiting for
the fireman to touch my arm.
they say
“your leg is not numb, ma’am.”
but I can’t be sure so I make
him touch it again.
2.
one trick is never tell them
anything. I like my men
to think I wait in lonely
cave: ache
and pray for them.
palms clasped and reverent,
sort of rocking like that.
real southern too.
just sort of worshiping
the idolatry of shadow.
please.
they make me repeat it:
please. and thanks
for everything.
3.
my men remember me
incessantly and always
cut out of starry dough:
soft, head half-cocked
looking up at them
with servitude but
sideways like I’m
about to laugh,
then me in my day skirt,
hair covered and
muttering.
candle lit or twenty seven
if I’m out of time.
devout.
pocket full of them.
what a violent question.
you’re sunburned,
gone for weeks without
inquiry and now
a wash of here:
forehead fervid,
a humid wind clasping
the back of the choker
while your left hand lifts
my skirt.
thighs are soft,
reminiscent,
it’s the skin that brought
you back, isn’t it?
4.
what’s that?
you say,
looking at the blue and
black ring of shadow mouth
above my birthmark.
it’s the way your jaw
bulges as you bite your
ocean tongue
that was just kept safe
and wet under me
before you begin to
pull the clasp rope
til the emerald center
pushes hard against the
front of my throat
almost as if you are going to
bring the stone inside me
that proves it.
and please,
what a violent question,
love.
“Five of Wands”
I’d be hard pressed
not to tell you what a doe-eyed
impression you leave:
silk chest & moans
and the way your mouth fell open
when I opened the door.
that I recorded.
when you smiled, it twisted my nerves.
I’ll remember that.
I’m looking up at you about to laugh
but know better:
learned to lie still in
quake. I spend days
rehearsing affection
in the mirror.
your hands are kind of
loose
around my neck even though
you said you like to be in charge
and you’re honest to god
the sweetest, warmest thing
I’ve ever met.
I grab your forearm
and dig my nails in it.
practice being pithy about certain things,
guarded,
I snap my teeth shut.
please.
I’m trying not to laugh.
my knees hurt.
my chin gently cupped by your
palms.
your hand is still loose
around my neck
so I say it again,
harder.
choke me.
please.
kill me,
fuck.
“the masochist”
This next section is called:
five of cups.
age lifted something;
a desire to speak every word.
I sit in silence and
watch birds on my blue porch.
I’m the darkest thing there ever
was inside and no longer
effusive in her dealings.
fill the bowl with butts.
fill my thoughts with
that pink air
I wear like a crux.
my purring girl,
you’re the softest thing I ever met.
and love, we know
I want this thing gone.
I want this thing gone, he says.
“Mars in Scorpio”
set the bowl of pepper
& tourmaline.
you don’t
have another chance.
Im coked up
& color coordinated,
green & gold alligator chain
around my neck
slowly emerging from her swamp.
a pink wig and tan eyeshadow.
nude lips. big hoops of
snake.
plain in some ways but always
noticed. A cat that wants hours
of pet unreciprocated.
I can meet my needs
but my wants overtake me.
And so I begin to list them:
I want to be free.
“Libra”
most things I do out of boredom
are destructive so I decide to
change all the lighting in my house;
perhaps the pitch black 11:00 pm
is destroying me mentally.
it’s all shades of blue now. with hints of teal
and pink. lots of warm orange light.
I’m dressed in white. clean
and smiling. with someone else’s hand
pinched into my spine so I can hold that feeling
of being held the right way that right time.
Im coked up
& color coordinated,
green & gold alligator chain
around my neck;
her long snout reaching out of the emerald glass,
beast emerging from her swamp.
a pink wig and tan eyeshadow.
nude lips. big hoops of
snake.a cat that wants hours
of pet unreciprocated.
I can meet my needs
but my wants overtake me.
And so I begin to list them:
I want to be free.
“Libra”
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