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tonsiled & Venetian Ceruse
tonsiled the slug of your body lies dead upon the floor; it squirms for a funeral without a casket. I make a bad Schrödinger joke: my cat died but did it ever exist? should I…
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Tape Recorder Seance
Whether or not I press play, the tape rattles on; some days, I just hear it in my mind— wandering about by the side of the road, looking, out, out, for a nice place to sit down and witness the reservoir’s slow metamorphosis into sludge. Other days? No. Other days, I pull out The tape…
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Equinox
Lightning and thunder reassert themselves in static blinding booms. Boom. Storm shorts out the grid, so together we hunt for batteries. In the sudden blackness, I scour and squint until you become a soundwave streak of yellow twitching unlike an insulated wire. Jagged nerve. Warm. Salt crust spills from our cheap, plastic shelves…
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What I don’t understand is the beauty
From here the mountain looks like moss, but there are worse things that could look like moss. Bodies, for one. The first time passing most things, I did not know they could be looked at. God, I was so proud. I thought I was pure movement. Like I could prove the world’s ugliness…
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Ghazal for March
A fawn pauses from grazing infant grass. In the distance a train shouts, heralding not spring but its weaker twin. I am in love with beginnings but their bliss is not spring. My friends see hips swing & call it funny how I dizzy & praise God after a breakup, cut free to silhouette…
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death is
a shadow between sponge-molded floorboards and marble countertops, a daffodil that’s shrunken flattened against the ground dismissed until dawn breaks, the splitting of an egg yolk running through the little valleys onto the stone kitchen floor drops of yellow, like petals and liquid sunlight spilling in. or is it more secretive, censored until…
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Bluebells + How to Stop the Bleeding
Bluebells “The temple bell stops— but the sound keeps coming out of the flowers.” – Bashō Truth is the quiet color of the wind over the ocean, the temple on the cliffside, the oxidized bell that sweeps clean the plain. It stops the dust from building up as a patina,…
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Shoulder Strain
The golden sand of a cemetery wound claws with rancor, rests its plaster-filled palms on your provident shoulders, steers you into this braided soil and, Lord, it molds you like a Scythian collar, its latch unsealed.
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I run into the red
Let’s bundle up this longing to know another / fling curtains over doors / we need more blindness. I gawk at compasses / hallucinate edged circles / stop their revelatory revolutions. A matador’s calculations are never constant / I was formulated for distance. I run into the red, and the cloth is your palm. The…
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Nana para la Montaña
Cómo se enluta la montaña, Agazapada en el cándido recontar de mi nona, Cómo la pinta de cruda al tornarse cansada la luna, Cómo vacían tus calles, y callan las cunas, y cierran las puertas… al compás de la marcha. Calle que calla, Tumba que tumba, Bota que bota, al son de…
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moving/dream
two things are unique to a home: writer’s block and wetting the bed. in sleep my adult teeth pushed each other from my mouth like dominos. you held me, a wrinkled fetus with long hair– we can laugh at…