The night I try to write you a poem
I almost die. My mother is away at the edge of town, too far away
to call. I fall into the dream where I brush my hair all through the night, my couch
until it bleeds. My mother doesn’t belong here anyway. She never taught me
how to outlive this. Never told me what to write on the back of the envelope
before it slips up my skirt again. I loved you first, I’m sure,
when you drove me home from the airport and we ran out of gas.
At that point, I forgot about heaven. I forgot to draw a circle in the sand.
I told you because I am Gemini Moon, people do not realize how sensitive
you can be, that as a girl, I had a remote control for a brain, memorized the TV guide,
never heard of kinetic energy, then matured into a victim of synaesthesia
and an empty gas can. I never asked to resuscitate anything, never asked
for any of it. Safer to stuff a damp towel in the door crack, turn up Jesus
and Mary Chain, forget about the damn stuff, smoke anything my hands
land on. The night I try to say this to you, I want to touch your spine and make it liquid.
I do. Sitting on the couch, the red of my bra strap is a Trans-Siberian highway. I watch you until every bit of you disappears into my highway. You say something dirty,
something sweet, your spine is my body now, I am brought back, swimming out of
the corset your words built, winding myself up the road
covered in snow. Trying to forget you I become so tired of myself, my words
leap out of my knees, the small hairs in my pits, my labia, from the earworm
nothing will cure. I can think of nothing other than you standing in my kitchen, slicing an orange with the sharp knife, wearing only white sneakers and those fucking freckles.
The night I try to write you a poem, I tell myself I am all dream, spitting up
broken rocks the size of teeth. I hear that means soon death. Every impulse in me is right,
I want you to want me is bad. The morning I try to write you a poem, I wake up and
Google two different types of caviar, neither one can breathe. I listen to Destroyer
and masturbate, revisit again the movie, the one when he chops down the tree,
loads the wood on the sleigh and brings it to her fire.
Celibacy, Don’t Forget About Me
There is a specific smell to my mother’s urine.
Echinacea and Cheerios.
Everything the color of mustard smells like her.
That fuzz. An olfactory shape.
It could be from a litany of 1980’s antipsychotics, or a century old
UTI. It is so distinct it swells cantaloupes in my eyes.
For the first time tonight, I realized I might be a dick tease.
No. I realized I most likely am a dick tease.
Whip of tongue, safely detached in an innocent text, such sass,
such a lingering thing, half-assing, that errant double-dildo comment
dangles. I will not say carrot, because it is clear
that is exactly what I mean.
Earth orange, beaming with bright, sturdy stem, raw crunch.
A vegetal shape. Husbandry, dare lay me like a feather.
I could give it up at any time is not only something I say.
It is something, most days, I wait
til taken from me.
And it ain’t so bad.
A really smart man once told me, when I am older,
will naturally smell
like my mother’s
and I can not fuck these men.
There are so few ways to prevent everything from happening in that order.
The Things I Try to Tell You to Tell You Off
Misty Meadows was considered lucky because she could live so minimally. Like a bison
Once I wrote a sentence.
There really is nothing like beauty.
And then I wrote an ambiguous sentence.
There really is.
I think I missed Easter this year. I didn’t feel it. I didn’t feel it at all.
If there is anything I can do, I can show up and explain the things you must know:
how I know a lot about slowness,
swinging my face through the grass.
Every time I eat soup with his square spoon I think he must think of me.
It’s not a premonition. That’s the name of a song, and I don’t need it explained to me.
There is an advantage, but, perhaps, it is hard to watch.
It’s the amount of time it takes my plaintive secrets to get to the corner of the room
where my true love must be, must be,
must be in error, since I am misgiving;
since I mostly see error before merit–
such is me, the Virtuoso, the contrarian genius.
For the majority of the day, and sometimes into the all the nights, all I do is wait, wait for
anything to sense me.
Sometimes I am lying, because I am absolutely searching the silverware drawer for
the wrongly-shaped spoon
to stare at its hollowed-out, cornered face, still asking.
After six years, I still pretend, the spoon! What a silly joke.
If only intention equaled connection.
My, my. Sentences are getting harder to leave. By leave, I mean grasp for.
I am not the type of poet to use “cleave.”
At the window, I couldn’t bare the last of your hand passing off the last of us.
Grasping after keys like a cluster of feathers that barely held us down.
I bought a rabbit foot fob from Amazon to hold me down now instead