Texting

What worries me is that every
time I open my phone, my thumb
hovers over the K involuntarily.
I don’t know why this is. It
shouldn’t be. Perhaps that is simply
where it is most comfortable
for my thumb to rest. Logistically,
that makes sense.

But logic doesn’t explain
everything.

A Fork

Reflections of snowflakes
showed up in his irises
and made it even harder
to look away, so I stared
and when he finally noticed
I blushed and hid my smile.
When I glanced back up,
he was doing the same.
Then I paid for my hot
chocolate and I left.

Memory

I forgot where I put my hairbrush
and what I had for breakfast. For a while,
I forgot my middle name
and my father’s birthday (he wasn’t too
happy about that). I forgot
how to breathe and how to ride
my bike, so my question is:
Why can’t I forget you?

Paper Cuts

Paper cuts hurt like hell.
So I suppose if I ever
were to want to have some
dramatic writer suicide,
I would slit my wrists
with paper. Tiny slices
all over. Thousands of them,
because it will take that many
to kill me.

Eight Seconds

Eight seconds, they told me. Just hold
on for eight seconds and you’re gold.

When I end up on the ground, covered
in sandy dust, I figure it’s just the same.

I count the squares in the grid above me,
because everyone is in slow motion.

I don’t get past eight before they haul
me up and tell me I’m going to live.

I could have told them that. The bull
stares me down while I hobble back.

He’s won this time, but I’ll get my eight
seconds. Now, it’s personal.

The Writer to the Words

It is, at times like these, when I want
nothing more than to sleep for long
hours, that I find words being to hit
me over the head, demanding my attention.
I ask them, why now? You do not cooperate
when I wish it, so why should I cater
to you? Go find another writer. At least,
this is what I want to say. But I am their
slave. To refuse them, even at such
dark times in the night, might make them abandon
me forever and for good. And this, I know,
would be too much.

A Deadly Combination

I have seen it too many times
already. A woman cannot, at once,
be both a muse and a writer. To
fill two roles in a system, both leaves and tree,
makes for, when there are two children, four
unhappy people. She must both fight
for her time and be, for the man, be sex.
They may, for some years not exceeding seven,
live in frigid peace, but before long, she will hate
him and say nothing but, “No, non, nein.”
No, a woman cannot be a muse, and then
a writer. For she will always end up dead.

Kate Middleton

Somewhere in England,
there is a poet scratching
at a piece of paper on which
he has written a poem
in dedication to the new
Royal Couple. Meanwhile,
I lie in bed in America
and it is 12:30 AM, and all
I can do is write silly poems
that you will never read
and write around things I will
never actually write. It all seems
so unimportant when
there is a poet somewhere
in England, and tomorrow –
no, today – the Royal Bride
lies in bed and stares up,
counting the ceiling tiles
and the seconds left
of her single life.

Hunger

You know when your stomach
growls and the emptiness
inside seems to grow nerves
and suddenly you feel with that
emptiness?

Well, that’s how my heart
feels whenever I think of you.

Twice Dead

When the driver swerved, he already
knew he was
not
going
to make it.
But he allowed himself to laugh,
just before the eighteen-wheeler
plowed into the hearse:
the guy shut up in a coffin
in the back would be twice
dead.

The Suitors

The suitors lined themselves to be inspected
while Miss Lydia Poler walked
through the garden and waited
for her father’s decision. It was an eventful
day. The dogs had escaped early
that morning and Lydia’s dress
was found to be not as well-fitting
as originally suspected. Yet, the suitors
would come – and did – so there was nothing
to do but to expect them and be as prepared
as was able.

A Dichte Partially ins Deutsch

Der Zug barreled through,
barreled through, whistling
durch dem Regen, like pounding
on Klavier keys. I wanted
to remember this. I didn’t weiß
if I could. For now,
I do.

Sounds: A Haiku

It sounded as if
water poured from a vase;
nothing like the rain.

When

When I heard you speak,
for the first time in two years,
my ears bled. I didn’t remember
you having that effect
on me before. But I’ve also
been wrong before.

When you kissed me,
for the first time in three years,
my lips blistered over,
they crusted with scabs
and leaked puss, so I scrunched
my nose in disgust.

When you held my hand,
for the first time in four years,
it felt as if I had received
a thousand paper cuts
by a thousand crescent
moons.

When you said goodbye,
for the very last time,
my heart morphed into a piece
of carved stone. I very much
doubt it will be damaged
again.

The Thoughts of Others

I want to write until my laptop
burns my thighs and creates
a vacuum in my head. No one
ever said that writing
was pretty. If anything, it’s
hideous and brutal. But it –
writing – is something
I have to do. Because
no one can write for me.
And I can’t record the thoughts
of others.

What Lovers Are For

Lovers are for reaching the spots
you can’t in the shower.

Lovers are for keeping the bed
warm when you get up in the night
to use the bathroom.

Lovers are for making you breakfast
and other food when you are either
too lazy, too sick, or just plain
don’t feel like it.

Lovers are for having a good
excuse available at all times:
Family reunion? Sorry,
my significant other is in the hospital
with appendicitis.

Lovers are for ego boosts
that no one else will give you,
even if you beg on your hands
and knees and are the nicest person in the world.

Lovers are for having at least
one person on your side,
even if they disagree.

Lovers are for reaching the spots
you can’t in the shower.

Road Trip

We turned up the radio in the car
as if it would make our favorite
song that much better. We were young
and stupid (what else could we be
if we were also young?) so I justified
it all to myself. Besides, in old age
we would lose our hearing anyway.
We might as well enjoy the ride.

I was hungry so we stopped at a gas
station and we got five Little Debbie
cakes and a bag of pretzels and a pack
of gum for after. By two o’clock,
it was all gone and we were only
in Pennsylvania.

Fictions

I cracked open the window
and took an aspirin, in hopes
that I would fall asleep
while the stars breathed
overhead and guarded
my comatose body. Nothing
ever happens the way
they do in movies and books,
but I can always try.

The Betrayal

The problem is, if I am not
talking with you, I am kissing
you. It seems whatever we do,
my lips are involved and get
me in trouble. So I suggest
this philosophy: it is not words
or kisses that muddle our
relationships, but our lips.

And think on this – even when we
write, our words remain
innocent. Instead, our fingers,
those with which we traced
each other’s faces and tangled
together are culprits.

No, if I am to place any blame,
I would mark our bodies responsible
for treason.

The Poet

I chew on my pen and the ink
spills into my mouth. When I spit
onto the page, words appear.

Pluto and the Sun

I am Pluto.
And you may think
you turned your back
on me, but you are wrong,
wrong, wrong.

You may be the Sun
but you are not so glorious.
In all your shining
you have warmed by back
from a deep blue
to an icy purple.

Soon I shall be hot
pink, then white,
scalding with your hostile
rays.

Oh yes, Sun.
I have betrayed
you. I use your energy
against you, fueling
my own
spirit.

Stories

She would never buy a dress
without pockets, for here
is where she kept little leafs
of scrap paper, all torn
around the edges like seafoam.

These bits of paper – barely
wider than a finger’s width – chaoticized
her life in small ways. They
were the only uncalculated part
of her entire existence.

At any given time, there could be any
number of strips in her pockets. If
she did not fear they would fly
from her fingers at a cloud’s breath,
she might have counted them.

Except that would ruin some of the giddy
mystery of it all. She never knew
all of their contents at once,
either. Some had smudges of fresh
dirt, others had a single word that told a whole story.

But it was the girl herself,
with her large-pocketed sundresses,
that became an entire fable
all
on her own.

Sleeping With Eyes Open

“And I…and I am…finally waking up.” – “Bruised” – Jack’s Mannequin

I got lost for a while, there,
in my own world, disguising
my face with a smile
that was true, but not intended.

Sound waves drifted
through the air and into my ears,
and my heart rate
slowed.

The sun baked my skin
deliciously and I could breathe
again.

Straightjacket

In the last five minutes,
I have checked the date
three times. Three times
it has been April 20,
2011. I check again to be sure.
And again. It is still April 20,
2011. Yet I don’t believe
my memory serves me. It is working
against me, like fish against
the current. Maybe today
is yesterday. Or it is possible
I am crazy. It is possible I am
sitting in a padded cell right now.
I guess you’ll have to tell me.
But even if you did, I’m not sure
I would believe you. Because maybe,
maybe, you’re the one who’s crazy.

To Andrew McMahon

I forget how you affect me
until you do it. When I turn
on your sound, I turn into someone
else. I am the hermit, the recluse,
the nobody. I am the star,
the planet, everyone and everything.
My hair strays to my face,
and I become empowered, impassioned.
It’s what you hoped for,
I imagine.

Definitions

I do not have the vocabulary
to express anything correctly.

I ought to be shot for even trying;
in fact, we all should be.

We will talk on our phones,
hunch over our computers,

try to make sense from nothing
with meaningless sounds and

words. But in the end it will
all be

meaningless.

Love, In Paris

Monday evening after dinner,
I crept down to my grandparent’s
basement and shuffled
their stuff around until I found
their collection of slides. The projector
was already set up on a card table
in front of the blank cement wall.
No one was around so I decided
it was okay if I had a look.

It did not occur to me that any
of them might be pornographic.
They weren’t. Mostly, it was pictures
of my grandmother in her then-liberal
dresses, my grandfather in his fedora
squeezing her hand tightly. I did not linger
on any of them very long, except
for the one of them in Paris.

I was kind of embarrassed for them:
kissing in front of the Eifel Tower.
It was so cliché. If they’d known
I was doing the equivalent of Facebook
stalking them, I’d’ve gone upstairs
and slapped them for taking such a ridiculous
photograph.

And then I decided it didn’t matter:
if someone loved me as much
as they loved each other in that moment,
I’d’ve taken an even stupider picture
and not given one single damn.

The Pinwheels

There are pinwheels
in my eyes, spinning
mismatched collections
of pixels blocking
my vision. When I blink,
they grow and the center
rotates furiously, trying
to burn its image in my eyes
forever. I may be looking
at a black hole forever.

In My Mind

A long-legged giraffe loped
through my head and asked
me, “What is the meaning
of life?” The best answer
I could come up with was 42.
He counted his spots, and found
there were exactly two-and-forty
marks on his hide. I smirked,
nodded, crossed my arms.
He tripped away.

An obese zebra dragged
itself with its front legs,
gasping and wheezing. He told
me I was going to die at age
twenty-four. I told him I knew.
I always knew.

A scaly snake slid through the gaps
in my mind and fell asleep,
dreaming of rabbits and goats
and chocolate bars. I did not understand
so I began to cry.

You Know Who You Are

How is it, that even though
you’ve broken me three times
(oh, that magic number)
I would still go back, given
the chance? Explain that to me.
I’m so tired of this. I hate
hate hate you. And you hardly
remember my name anymore,
I imagine. Hardly remember
my laugh, my eyes, my touch;
but I remember these of yours more
than I remember anything else.
Why don’t you just end it,
and euthanize me? I won’t protest.

Never

I waited for you
at my window,
but you never came,
so I decided to sleep.

I slept, and still, you never
came. When I woke,
I ate an apple, foolishly
hoping it would provide
me with information
on your whereabouts.

It never did.

This Will Not Do

When you cannot see
out of your right eye,
it is no good being a writer.

Half of your perception
is vanished. Half of your raw
material is a misty vapor.

This will not do, this will not do.

Whatever other symptoms
you may have, this is surely
the worst of them.

You may have a headache,
a fever, a runny nose. But none
of these will prevent you from writing,

from seeing, from perceiving. This will not do.

With a cloudy, angry eye,
half of your craft is gone
and you can no longer make a living.

When you cannot see
out of your right eye,
it is no good being a writer.

A Walk

The wind taps my shoulder,
asks if I want to talk.
I shake my head, move
harder, faster, stiffer.
My knees buckle at every
step, my breath hitches
in my throat. God,
what have I done?

To a Winged Fellow

What thou art we know not – “To a Skylark” by Percy Bysshe Shelley

What for a bird, I cannot be sure,
though to this I can attest:
you caroled and crooned in the summer rain
while away did hide the rest.

I ask you, sweet, how can it be,
that unlike drops of rain,
despite your somewhat greater weight,
you do not fall in vain.

And there, that bite of bright blue sky,
is that for which you wait?
Or do you seek yourself instead
a darling little mate?

Sing low for me, if you do please
or hum a bit instead;
serenade with all your zest
while I lie in my bed.

There Are Voices Outside My Window

There are voices outside my window,
though I don’t know what they say;
perhaps they speak of love and jest,
or maybe of yesterday.

There are voices outside my window,
I have heard them above an hour;
they have a sing-song quality,
from here up in my tower.

There are voices outside my window,
they float from down below;
they mingle with the cars and trains,
and with the sweet wind blow.

There are voices outside my window,
can’t you hear them, too?
I’d like to go and join them,
but I’d rather not leave you.

Occupations

First you were a poet,
who tangled words to webs.
And with these words, I felt a thing,
quite like the water’s ebbs.

Then you were a pirate,
who took my heart to keep.
And though I held it dear to me,
I could not make me weep.

Next you were a joker,
who played some dirty tricks.
And so I felt like your guitar,
on which you played mean licks.

Last you were a hangman,
who tightened up my noose.
And despite my previous struggles,
I was hurt to be set loose.

Time's Wife

I was younger than Time
when we wed, but since, I fear,
I have aged. My skin droops
shamelessly from my bones,
my body thin and cripple,
I hobble this way and that.

Our daughter, Life, came
just following the vows,
and the flowers went abloom.
Yet soon she had a brother,
with whom she quarreled some,
despite our interference.

Our son, Death, was born
not far after our her,
and began his reign at two,
he, I swear, has not matured
in mind or body since,
slaying any and all for a laugh.

Yet Time and I pass the years,
watching mortals change and grow,
never knowing when Life
will breathe and set them free
or Death will cough
and take them.

In Boston

My heart lies in Boston,
beneath the too-green grass
of the Common, next to the swan
boats, across from the Charles
River.

My brain resides in Boston,
in a high Victorian-style
apartment at the city’s
edge, peering over the
Bunker Hill Bridge, which lights
up spectacularly at night.

My hands spend their days in Boston,
sifting the dirt in Fenway
Park, polishing the wood
of the bats, feeling the vibrations
when the ball makes a crack
and the crowd stomps the cement.

My feet live in Boston,
journeying byway of the Freedom
Trail, toes curling at the graveyard
in which Paul Revere
is buried, still calling, still calling.

To Jane Austen

Dear Jane,

I was glad to hear
you finished another piece.
Continually you impress
me and I am eager
to read whatever wonderful
excursions you have invented
in that excellent little head
of yours.

Do you ever wish, darling,
you were a heroine in your written
imagination? I often play
Elizabeth Bennett in my mind –
though I keep this to myself;
my conversations with Darcy
are silent, though if one gazes
closely into my eyes, they might
see a twinkling of admiration
or perhaps the laugh after a charming
joke I have thought up
to tell him.

I quite imagine you write
for the reasons I imagine:
we wish for love. You needn’t
hide this from me.

While it is not romantic love,
you have all the love in the world
and more
from me.

Some Advice

“Don't be fooled by the calendar. There are only as many days in the year as you make use of.” - Charles Richards

I wonder why you sit here,
eyes passing over symbols
that are supposed to equal
some kind of meaning. You know,
I spent my years permutating
and making up
“words,” “letters,” “punctuation.”
I’ve been told they mean
something. Though I could not
tell you what. Yet here you are, “reading”
all of it when you could be living.

Take my advice, dear:
Go live. Do not let my words live for you.

Lactoids

Esther’s breasts
they droop before her, sandbags
counteracting the weight of the theater
curtains: her plaid button-down shirt.

Chantal’s boobs
she doesn’t remember when they emerged
when she realized something was different,
and she was no longer just one of the boys.

Kelly’s girls
when she’s in the club, they get in the way;
but she wouldn’t have a dance
partner – or a drink – without their assistance.

Rebecca’s hooters
they’re her tools, her props;
the job doesn’t get done by the flat-chested,
and even a working girl has to eat.

Laura’s mammaries
the baby cries and she thinks
not of his relief from hunger, but of her own
release from the extra foreign milk-weight.

(Mary’s breasts
the site at which milk,
in the female mammal,
is kept and created for offspring.)

Re: Dear Sweetheart

I got your e-mail yesterday and my heart
must tell you, dear, your two-dimensional words
do not express alleged passion. E-mails offer no electric
shocks. And if you really cared,

you would have sent a three-dimensional
letter. I adore your tilting script,
which you reserve for people less
important. Would it kill you to take the time
and write dear you, a line, and maybe love, me?
Or is that me asking you for far too much?

You know that thrill when you open your mailbox
and there are stacks of mysterious envelopes?

Sometimes seeing a love note heightens that thrill,
even when sitting amongst the clutter, flyers, bills, and dust.

June 23, 1942

The letter arrives Monday.
My seventeen-year-old bones struggle
up the seventy-year-old oak tree;
I select a branch and perch,
tear open the envelope, and wrench
out the note. His immaculate words bleed together.

Dear Liza if you’ve gotten this it means I’m
dead.
I feel the electric reverb
at the apex of every extremity.
The other letters bear nothing, even words
I relished before are hollow: Love, Charlie.

I swallow, I freeze. And then
I’m on uneven ground.
Everything’s a dream. Mother
hovers; I tilt my head
back and he’s there.
Tossing stones into the slight pond,

beaming at me as if he never left.
The sun’s bright as Charlie’s smile –
I have to blink.
And he’s gone
as quickly as he appeared.
My surroundings become vague,

and somehow severe,
like Escher. I am lost in the curves,
the angles, the impossible geometry
of my surroundings.
Despite sincere effort,
I can’t move, paralyzed

by a dream; but I’m not delirious,
gazing up at the heavens,
mouthing nonsense.

For a moment, my eyes flutter shut
and Charlie returns,
Smiling as always.

Acts I-IV, or Chemistry and Subtext

She nearly spat in His
face, arms rigid, fingers curled, because
it isn’t what He said – it’s
what He meant.

and what He means
to Her
(whether or not He knows it).

On the other side, He
seethes, tightening His jaw,
the muscles in His shoulders, because
She has no right to assume.

and She has no right to assume
this odd control over Him
(whether or not She knows it)

Enter Stage Left, Right.
Boy meets Girl. Boy
loses Girl. And then,

Act Five, Scene Six (also known as
the Epiphany, the
Revelation):
an imperceptible flick
of His eyes – that’s not in the script;
it is – and He is –

What? Asking permission?
(She doesn’t even know anymore)

He holds His breath
for an hour, maybe more, but
the audience is patient and still, grinning
ignorantly of the real-life
romantic comedy playing out before them

Her nod is
similar, unremarkable, to everyone
except Him.

The scripted kiss is
tossed out and replaced
by the Real Thing; and They live

happily
for now.

The Wizard of Loss

My mom did not mind
that you put me in a pool
in the kitchen. Everything
about this was giggle-inducing,
and you looked after me as yours.
I did not know you would ever
die, much less in six short
years.

You always were out of place,
the Dorothy of the Eldreds,
like the box of instant potatoes
on the folding table, or the fire
alarm that went off during
your funeral.

Your head
is cut off, but I would know
that bag of a body
anywhere
anytime.

Mom told me you died
once before you died the second
time. I wanted to ask
you about it, but I never
did. What was it like?
Did you know you would die
four weeks before Y2K?
You must have.
How could you not?

This is really a photograph
of you, despite my center
position. A quiet observer,
sucking on your cigarettes,
making crude jokes that I was too
young to understand. I laughed anyway,
because I loved you.

And despite everything,
I still do.

Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome

One of the first
things I tell any boy
is this: When I was thirteen,
I found out that I
cannot have kids.

This probably scares
them away, but I figure
they have a right
to know. Often, they tell me
they don’t care.

Yeah, neither did I.

Then I turned sixteen.
I started driving.
I got a job.
I realized I wanted
to have a family
one day.

Adopt, they tell me, adopt.
This is already part
of my plans. I do want to adopt.
But I also want a child of my own.
Four, if I can really have it
my way.

And yet everything I read
tells me forty-percent chance
of miscarriage. Inability
to ovulate. Extra testosterone.
Some odds, huh?

The doctors can’t even find
actual, physical cysts. So,
really, it’s a variant. Still
I’ve been diagnosed.

I may never swell with a child.
I will watch teenage girls,
having children just because
they can. And I will hate them.
They will hate themselves.
I already hate myself.

But this is what I always
tell them:
When I was thirteen,
I found out that I
cannot have kids.

Endurance

Yes, I suppose it's true:
someday my prince will come,
hatchet in hand, blood
of previously hacked
hearts on his sleeves;
and I will endure it.

When his axe sinks
into my innocent, still-beating organ
and he pries it from my breast,
sliming his fingers,
I will endure it.

He will leave me lying, sprawled,
on the dirt road, gasping
while he deposits his newly-acquired
heart into his leather satchel --
but I will endure it.

As he strolls into the sunset
alone, swinging his bag
of bludgeoned hearts, I will think
I should have held out
for the highwayman. For this
I will, in those last seconds,
not forgive myself.

But, oh, I will endure it.

Please Stop Stealing My Things

Last month you pinched from me a fragile mare,
the one with little icy glass-spun wings.
On Tuesday night, you nabbed a bitten pear.
You left me old and rusty nickel strings
but then you took my acoustic guitar.
Then filching my eighties punk rock CDs,
you used a crowbar breaking into my car.
I puzzled when you took my pink chemise,
but less so when you thieved my walking shoes.
And then you grabbed my yellow stuffed giraffe.
You robbed me my collection of kazoos.
You nicked my mother’s red antique carafe.


I wish your thieving, dear, had not a start,
For next, I fear, you’ll steal my heart.

The Knowledge of a Plain Girl

“Plain women know more about men than beautiful women do.” – Katharine Hepburn

Sweet boy,
I would bet my heart
that I know the color
of your eyes better
than any other girl
you’ve kissed.

I recognize the tone
in your voice. I understand
it enough to see
that you can’t describe
it, no more than you
can describe love.

I remember your hands’
strength. Your fingers
had such length,
and the color was a warm
dirt brown, tinted
from hours lounging
in the sun.

For all this I would put
all my money, all my love,
all my wits on the line –
I surpass all others
in knowledge of you.
My attention to these details
were my only beneficial feature
to you.

Yet you know nothing of me,
the plain girl.

An Experiment

“What lies lurk in kisses.” – Heinrich Heine

For every minute of my life,
I will spend one second
recalling that night in July,
when you lured me to your house.

It was darkening when I arrived,
almost eight. Your house equally
dark and empty. In your room,
you had to hold my hand
so I did not trip on your messes.

You sat me on your bed. You asked
me what I wanted to do.
You suggested a movie. So we started
The Matrix on your computer,
lying back in your bed. I tried
not to get too close.

I did not understand it – the movie
or your feelings. I looked up
at you, traced your lips.

I wanted to kiss your soft mouth,
to see if it was as I remembered.

It was.

Except this time,
you regretted it twenty-four hours
later.

Five Trees

Five trees on a hill.
I shoved you against one,
my hands controlling
your shoulders. (I had never
taken such blatant charge
before.) Then I kissed

you. I always paid the most
attention to your bottom lip,
biting, kissing, sucking, licking,
whatever came to mind

and body. After, you smirked
at the other trees. “They’re
lonely,” you said. I smirked back,
but at you, not the trees. “I guess
they’ll have to wait until

next time.” You nodded and followed
me to my car. That night,
I was wearing my favorite t-shirt,
a pair of jeans, a white

fedora. You snatched it off my head,
replaced it on your own. Admittedly,
it looked like it belonged there, completing
your outfit: green t-shirt, black sweatpants,
no shoes. (You hated

clothes at all.) Then you kissed me, and I stole
back my fedora. You got into the passenger
side (so I could not leave). I told you this.
You smirked, like you do.

“I have to go,” I told you. “I have a driving
curfew.” “Don’t go,” you told me. Leaning
over, you kissed me. “I want to see
you again,” you said. “The other trees
are lonely.”

I nodded, pushed you out of the car. Then
you came around to my side, I rolled
down my window. “Bye,” you said.
You walked with my car as I backed out
and waved in the rearview mirror.

Cosplay

On Sunday afternoons, the steam twisted
from the manholes. I lied in the streets,
my blue wig tight to my head, my metallic
jacket unyielding. So I remained still and closed
my eyes. I liked to play comic book villains
while the people surrounded my body, murmuring
about what is that girl doing lying in the street?
I would only smile.

Letters To You

You have never been in a war;
but when I write to you, I feel
as if I am writing a Dear John.

Every day, it seems, you are facing
some struggle, some challenge
attempting to bring you down.

Like me, though, you love
a challenge. You know it only
makes you stronger.

Cliches, sure, but just as true
as the day they were first
said. Just as true as how I frame

each and every letter: Dear you,
Love, me.

The Piano Storm

I had never been to a piano
recital before. It was as good
an opportunity as any, aside
from the rain which the clouds
spit at us in anger. We half-
ran to the hall, the air chilling
our bodies like refrigerated Jell-O.

The thunder urged us on, a disgruntled
employer in the sky. Then we arrived,
and the hall was grand. The people
were grand. All was wonderful and grand.
We sat quietly. We waited. We anticipated
the program and read while the room buzzed.
Enter the pianist, tight and calculated.

A vase sat at the end, giving us something
to look at. I felt it quite illustrated
the music. Roses and baby’s breath, I shall
never forget the traditional arrangement,
so near the ebony piano. Classic black,
romantic red, tragic white.

Beneath the music was the steady growl
of thunder. When the music lulled,
the thunder soared. When the thunder
roared, the music hushed. And the pianist,
orchestrating all with glances to the ceiling.
I remembered I was out of place in jeans
and greasy hair. I realized I was bored.

The pianist slid his eyes above again.
Under a two layers of piano, the thunder
lowered to a grumble, then only a purr,
then mere breaths. Like a god,
he left between songs; this I did not understand.
After each performance, he stood, buttoned
his jacket, and bowed.

Outside, the rain died away.

This Is Your Brain On Love

I was thirsty,
so I drank.

I was cold,
so I pulled
on a sweater.

I was hungry,
so I ate a bowl
of New England-
hot chili.

I was bored,
so I read
and reread
my favorite
book.

I was in love,
but you would not
let me love you.

The Detox

I am having a you detox.
I have deleted you from my phone,
my Facebook, my watch list.

I am having a you detox.
I will not think about you.
I will not think about you.

I am having a you detox.
If I hear you were the first zombie infection,
I will laugh and say, “Didn’t see that coming.”

I am having a you detox.
I will flush you from my system,
inch by inch in my veins.

I am having a you detox.
Until I have filled the hole in my heart
with someone else.

I am having a you detox.
I will not think about you.
I will not think about you.

If I Were

If I were to brush my teeth,
I would vomit. I would choke,
and then I would cry
and choke some more –
because I do that when
I cry. So instead I will close
my eyes and pretend to sleep.
I once heard if you pretend
hard enough, it comes true
in your mind. Logic tells
me that I will sleep. If
that does not work,
I will watch old musicals
and sing along with the wrong
lyrics. But you won’t know –
no one will know – because
I will do it alone. And if this
does not satisfy my blurring mind
I will occupy my hands. I will strum
at my guitar until the frets
drip with blood, until my fingers
are reduced to stubs. If still I find
I cannot think, I will take a bath.
In this bath, I will reach down my throat
and let my arm sink down until
my hand grips my heart. And I will pull it
out.

Moon Song for KDN

Look to the moon, my morning
darling. She has been named
chaste; barren; virginal; an untouched
goddess.

But look closer, sweet. Peer on her confectionary
surface. See there, and there,
and there – a crater. She is, perhaps,
imperfect.

Her marred flesh is too often overlooked
by poets and lovers and mothers
telling fairy tales. Thus through the years, she was our
dear one.

We confessed our sins to her, professed
our love by her, indulged in her, but
never saw her for what she really was –
a deception.

O, yes; Satan’s daughter has made fools of us
all.

To Sylvia Plath

Sylvia, you were a lizard. Not
so bold as a dinosaur
and not so manipulative as a snake.

You sensed out all with careful
calculation, skirting around everyone
like a cat around a pool.

Cooling in the shadows, you watched
and plotted with slitted pupils, foreboding
queen; you married yourself.

Ampersand &

Up and to the left
then arc, down straight
left and cross. The ampersand
swims in my eyes, a calligraphic
ghost. So fine and elegant. Not quite
an 8 nor a B or Q but something
between. Ampersand.

The word ties my tongue in beautiful
knots and I resemble the symbol. &&&

My half-lidded eyes stare at the figure
on the page. I despise it. I hate its non-existent
angles. It takes over the paper – the lettered
words never stood a chance. I cover the offensive
mark with my thumb. O, horrid one. O, inky
noose. I cannot stand the site of it.

Mistake (to TJS)

I realize now, my mistake.
It should have occurred
to me to mar you with my lips.
Somewhere you could not hide
it. Perhaps then she would have seen
that you belonged to me. You
would not have had to choose
or leave one for the other (you left
me, you know). I could have kept you to
myself.

Exhaustion

She should not be here, on this jagged
rock in the woods, dry dirt below,
housing the miniature crawlers
of her nightmares. Her pencil-skirted knees
glued to each other while her high-
heeled feet are two north
magnets. Her hair, God, her hair
no longer shines as yesterday –
newly freed from curlers and irons and brushes –
but is dry as her cotton-heavy
mouth. All that remains
is the red lipstick, still fresh,
still pulsing, still neat, outlining
her open mouth, caught in a sob
but not taking or freeing air. Cupped
palm to her moistened forehead, the refrain
spills from her lips again and again:
“I’m so tired, I’m so tired. God, I’m so
tired.”