we left with our hands
uncurling
in separate pockets, fingers
strained against the denim.
I left a place where I found
God and
a studio apartment
with no utility bill,

foothills with no rain and
zero percent humidity,
sun 300 days a year and
a rose blanket that smelled
like my parent’s room.
I left my
first incantation,
my brother is dead
in the margin and
you left me with this
townhouse.

an abrasive echo
that scratched marks
in the walls,
no budget for paint.
one half of the utensils,
a couple of wicker baskets
and no end table.
you gesture to the antique armoire,
remind me it’s yours
even though it’s not your
taste, you see the value
in heavy wood.

you took the bigger bottle of
toothpaste.
five chairs,
all the curtains, the area rugs,
the broom and your
glare lingered on me
counting dollars
in a borrowed sundress,
feel my clavicle
jut out the skin
as I rationed meals.

you took the kitten and
the lighters,
every last card
(left the armoire)
and so abruptly like when
you took my waist that
one breathy night,
pulled me into the crook
of your body. said
you were going to
squeeze me in this bad neighborhood
rolled out of that soft spot,
grabbed a litter box,
took clean off.

“doors #13”

November 10, 2020 0

freedom,
as with any other illusion,
is a cage; square
of smudged windows

or
slowly cracking doors,
screened porches and you’re
watching the kids chase the wind
into the gulls at the shore.
brick walls with a hole in the
mortar and you’re peeking
through the cracks of your
latest lover’s absence,
trying to catch sight of
the tips of their nails
for the synesthetic trail
down your breast or
the scourge and
when settled
and mended and feeling
very tall,
broken glass on the sidewalk
as you leap from your
place:

burning, indelible
in char.

doors #12

November 10, 2020 0

as if I am even hurting anything;
some embittered tremulous
thing shaking her fist at the
moon and praying for a tidal
wave.

you notice my arms are toned,
you say I really wear my weight.
you watch me lift bone to sky
and notice the notch in my veins
before you even notice
the flood.

“flood”

November 8, 2020 0

it keeps no record of wrongs.
i’m saying it out loud
and I’m noticing my drawl
drawn out that’s how I know
he’s come round.
placed toffee on the other
mantle the way he likes
try not to ask about
whatever wayward lover
that’s been side eyeing
me or just puckering
their lips and I’m
hor d’oeuvres.
disentangled.
waste.
of time.
but here we are
marking everything
xxx with my fire finger
so I decide to
begin again:

love is patient.

I am trying not to get lost
in the mirror
which is a tall fucking
order (but drawing it
out so it goes
t aaaaallll fucking
ordddderrrrrrr)
when the little girl
enters the room.

the audience is lost,
I know. ok, so
there’s me plus
my reflection
plus it’s
what year and
there’s
how many
folks
in the room?

“Formula #2: Descriptive”

November 6, 2020 0

I know I’ll always be ok.by purpose, my namewill be forgotten. my real name.I am thinking back.if you can’t keep up,this is winter 2014. but it is alsowinter 2017.it is also spring andsummer 2020.the day I arrived in the hotelin the financial district of New Yorkto meet a Russian photographerwho promised me a night in an expensivesuite and a binding contractthat has been violated over timewithout my awareness,my nails were paintedblue to match mybruised knees.spread more, all the way.I thought that wascute.

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 spring and
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 cash feels
sizeable in an envelope.
ok, chill.
fuck,

I got rent, right?

“doors (#7)”

November 6, 2020 0

at three pm,
I show up to the church
just my tourmaline in
hand, hair wrapped
and I begin.
God, I renounce all
evil in me.
my hands twisted
like roots, the white string
of my cuff ties
between my knuckles,
nervous
and he says
daughter,
take your time.

beads of sweat
ride my back, pull my
camisole tight to skin and
I can feel the pleather
stuck to the bottom of
my thighs so that if I moved,
the flesh would have to be
ripped from bench.
I’m obsessed with time,
and that’s not the issue
but how I count it
in riddles.
he cannot see the way
I move my leg;
the natural tremble
it’s developed.
it’s what I say in
blackouts, or even now,
the way it has to be correct.
the way it spills out of me.
I’ve twisted the tie til the circulation
is cut, tightly around my
ring finger.
and that I need to be subsequently
scourged, promptly.
begin unraveling it when I feel the
pins start up my knuckles.

I’m nodding
my head in some sort
of agreement with something
internal, with the
rush I feel from purge,
the glow of sun
through pink stained glass
across my cheek,
the bend of legs
on pews,
the comfort of
the ailing, the
rhymes,
to ailment.
the comfort of beads
in hands, or
anything, the
alms.

I am here and
practicing throwing
my arms
open
when people
first
walk into the room
but also
remembering what
I
scream
at doors
in panic.

“the recitations”

November 6, 2020 0

I have a recurring vision
of me on the ground
twisting string in my fingers,
delirious and
I swear I can’t breathe.

I swear I’m not forsaken,
I say out loud to them,
I swear I renounce all evil in me.
tell him this is urgent,
my legs are jelly and I
cannot walk
sir, I cannot walk anymore,
I repeat to the EMT that refuses to
give me oxygen and
you materialize, suddenly
screaming
I am praying for you.
you are not making it happen,
you are seeing it first.

wait, back up,
that’s too complex
.a fire engine blares its horn
and I’m still wavering
in front of the park.
the little girl is doing
cartwheels for a small
blond child but when she sees
me looking again, she skips in
a circle and smiles.
I know never to bet on
anything that talks
so I push the whole thing
aside, keep walking.

feel a bone
in my knees
bend.

“nine of wands”

November 6, 2020 0

all day long
I vacillate between intention;
maybe a couple steps forward
or skirting one craving
and then the immediate withdrawal,
the later three walks and
four coffees, twelve cookies
and picking a fight;
my habits,

my beloved
hermeticism and the double meaning of
everything and I’m
ambivalent about every choice
I’ve given myself over to;
even in completion,
I shrug.
let the wind take me.

now I am
in Philadelphia,
and I have an Access card to
buy toilet paper.
I am also writing letters
to Colorado llying
saying I got into Temple’s
education program and I’m
raising my hand in meetings
to volunteer for service
earnestly.
getting invited to social things
and showing up early.
crying endlessly and in public,
which refreshes me.

I am dog sitting; house sitting for
money in Queen Village,
and I spend the days
drinking their coffee,
sneaking their chocolates.
using their washer for my own
heavy blankets,
and walking the pit bull
without the choke chain
she gave me.
not trying to make a fuss
about it even though I do want
to put it around the woman
walk her on her fours and
then tug a little bit.
that’s a part of
innate ferocity,
an ardent step, a
boil.

I observe the doors of people
in Society Hill:
clean black or
mahogany
with the numbers painted on
them or in brass next to their
outdoor lanterns, their empty
flower boxes soon to be leaking
zinnias, petunias, geraniums.
soon to be fingered,
picked by me.
I am obsessed with the material
possessions of others
and knowing I’m no good
marked this place for
later:

we should rob them.

begin to circle the area
with the pit bull
understanding clemency only
gifted to the few who
have smiles like
little sunshines
and white skin,
tanned but porcelain
otherwise.

“doors #4”

November 6, 2020 0

when you came home
with the giant brass
industrial art piece to hang
on the wall at the top
of the stairs, first I noticed
it had no smooth
edges like a pinwheel
fringed with daggers.
in fact, I was afraid
it might cut me in the middle
of the night and the second thing
I noticed was
you were a libertarian
but I had the grace to not even
ask how much it cost.
I had bought us an entire chocolate
cake using food stamps
so I cannot judge and I
have learned
life is meaningless.

the third is ennui.
you become overcome
with a sudden fatigue.
you can’t even argue.
you can’t aggress or retract.
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”

November 6, 2020 0

it’s midnight.
i’m with you
in a ball
on a quarter of my side.

you’re taking up a quarter of
my half of the bed with your engulfing
speculation and a partially harbored
rage marking pages you skimmed
to later find your place where you felt,
at the time,
some things are better left theorized
than openly enslaved.

I’m investigating an inner stillness
that dissolves when exposed
and counting
to ten, my sponsor said
contusions around my throat.
you’re learning about economics
this week:
hyperbole & statistics;
which way my freckles move
depending on my
frown,
the likelihood of a temper tantrum over soap scum
on anything I scrubbed,
unloved refrigerator pictures circa 1991,
premature forgiveness when I’ve still got to
fuck the bitter out but
someone gave me two weeks of yoga passes
so I’m suppressing it in down dog and polite nods
on a borrowed mat
on the other side
of town.
I’m crooked but
I’m hiding my scoliosis
in poses.

the amount of times my palms moved from open to
across your cheek and at what velocity,
how much of my useless back will face you tonight,
how long before one half of the bookshelf is strewn about
the floor,
how long before it’s all cleared out.
you’re a poor investment, Sarah
simply put,
how not to trust
anything that has to do with
us.
(count the marks on my throat)

you already know
about sharpness.
my Christmas tree is in a dumpster
in another state and most other things
shouldn’t be brought here or
shouldn’t be touched.
I’m in child’s pose
hiding in the closet
and tonight
you are learning

to never bet on
anything
that talks.

“the economist”

November 6, 2020 0