Bird Dog

you are you. And I am me.
And I am not you. And you are not me.
But there are ways in which you and i. me and you, become something new
altogether.
An entity birthed from
our hopes and griefs and bodies and
blood and orgasms and
moments of looking in to each others eyes' and the 9" between our faces when we
stand in front of each other and the
birthmarks we wear
and the gaps in your teeth ans the moments of
painful silence and the mornings where
I can not believe how good it feels to
lay next to you and your pet names for
me and the voices, songs, and meals
which take new meaning when shared
with you. An egg has never felt less like
an egg than every time we sit down to breakfast.
You, are you. And I, am me.
And I am not you.
And you are not me.
But life takes up purpose as those singular
definitions fade and gray. As
the rhythm of a new heartbeat rises
through the chorus. Melodic and sweet,
it harmonizes.

a ride from the hospital

to ride the bus on a friday night
from the local college campus is to practice
my craft of observation

glassine girls with knee scars and ankle boots
cluster together, take sips from
wine they stored in plastic water bottles look around at
all the others riding into the eleventh hour
think to themselves:
is this the night/ am i something special/ will my eyelashes melt into/ my face

i sit without make up
without ankle boots
with knee scars, i write a poem in my head:
peaceful wonton frat boy noodle
hospital hugging girls

as the sky darkens and
the bus whooshes onward and my
college campus angels peel off one by one
swallowed by double doors
confidently they step, hot pressed hair and
nylon calves, the last things i see

sour/mouth

plantain leaf (plantago lanceolata)
german chamomile (matricaria camomilla)
marshmallow root (althaea oficinalis)
17 prayers and
a long radio voice monologue, spoken

(outloud to myself while sitting

on the floor, splitting

ceramic/china/porcelain/clay

entry points,

into my burning belly)

all attempts at healing

Daydream//////////7

garter snakes and tall grass
 sweet herbs and warm ground;
offerings
a mise en place  for life
olive tones and navy blues and
deep midnights expose
such great heights from which to
tumble
a practice: being fulfilled rather than
feeling full

daydream#5

Ricky's in the corner
chewing toothpicks staring at soft mango belly
of someone else's girl and

I'm here at this desk
chewing on nails tasting bitter lemon rinds
after already sucking all the juice

I'll watch the wheel
I'll meet you somewhere else
I'll be forthcoming

trying not to renounce the world trying
self-cultivation.

AT THE AFGHAN RESTAURANT

peppermint/rhinestones/Anna Karenina
all things tart in the mouth like
cherry scones crumbling
the papered words that stick to
the back of your throat flutter with heat
I see what you really think, glowing
gleed in the pit of your
belly

A POEM FOR A.S.

purring, we sat

two cats on either side of the bed

mirrored images

of sucking on teeth and slight raises

of the corners of the mouth, twitching

proud whiskers.

we sang, we crowed

we side glanced at each other over

the rims of cups filled with whiskey and melted ice,

your hands weaving to

the sounds of Patsy Cline on the tape deck and

my own grainy voice.

night fell, slowly

dripping inky stains across the sky and you

remained backlit

I could barely see your luminescent bones

as you pulled on your shirt collar

to draw attention to your favourite parts.

purring, we sat.

DOMINOES

this is the season of nesting
listless memory recalling the summer peach
that is the back of your neck. a sweet nectar
as you roll on the couch in the sunlight, I am left to
catch whiffs of the perfume-
signs of bruising, already

this is the season of inarguable difference
shadows long on the wall, amid storms swelling I
deconstruct like a maryoshka doll. breaking down
into smaller and smaller versions of myself
becoming a lesser, and lesser woman

this is the time for us now
blanched, poached, bloated, we
form imperceptible knots in the string binding us. left unnoticed
until the need to tug hard,
a hail mary
these minuscule knots tied before,
now ripping at the seams.