Nothing. Bandaids for broken bones. Papercuts and pebbles in my shoe. How stars feel on a clear night, trickling pixels hand over hand over sky over sea over air, to me.
Week after week, rain infiltrates underground numbers stations / driving saturated secrets like ants from floor and baseboard cracks, / molding enemies of neighbors, our sacred trust bled into puddles.
It’s best not to stare at the spiders that hang in corners, from vents, directly above you. Best not to ruminate on the myriad of arachnids your body has ghosted in your throat. Don’t try to imagine this room that looks like him. A disorder of hard-covers arranged by genre. Don’t envy his loud inhales, …
Here is my acoustic guitar in a room by itself / with no memories or need for a past. // There is my drunk boyfriend playing poker, / the feral sigh of a cat outside.
Remember, sweets, my recurring dream / while you babbled in sleep beside me?
to know there is something you should / care to know so I come / ashore on a mainland / of you because I am / an island slammed
It brings him back to the seminary in the 1950s / when he found God everywhere. / None of his five children go to church, / but I promise to engage in regular discourse.
My womb was promised a child. / She exists solely for that purpose and yet I keep denying her / the chance to reach her full potential. / There have been opportunities—mistakes—dodged / encounters where her hopes are raised and / I am sobbing, clutching the bathroom sink and my stomach. / She hates me.