spit-smooth

we are sitting around the dining room table trying not to think
about how it is the last time we will. the ceiling hangs over
our eyes like a cloth so we touch hands, cheeks, lick salt
and dirt off each others noses. it tastes too good to be
the last time we all come to rest between my teeth. the mouth
is not made a place to keep things but we have given it
our best. we are worn spit-smooth, good under thumb
and tongue. i have done nothing that matters more than making
this, this object shaped like a good skipping stone built of our bodies,
of my little black dog, a hundred ripe bananas and the way we insist
on brushing our teeth at the same time. i want to draw in each
of us where i can’t imagine us not. it’s hard to lose something
all at once that you gained little by little. though i am not sure
it would be better to lose every piece of this house, this life we built
at the speed we made it. to wake up one morning with a hole
where the stove was. the next day, we undo our laundry and bicker
for the first time. some day the hole will be one of us. no, it is better
like this. there is a joy in seeing how far you can throw even
the afternoon’s best stone.

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burnt breakfast

it is so scary to live
inside a want this
strong. my lips do
their thing my elbows
still form the right
angles but within: all
steam. breakfast
is burned, oatmeal
for dinner and over
and over everything
catches its breath. cells
pull apart like play
dough. my chest pulls
apart and keeps
pulling.

too cold for digging

it has been snowing as long as i can remember which maybe says more
about me than it does about the weather. the big oak paws at my window,
almost indistinguishable from the scratching of small warm things
that have made a home of my walls. i am glad something
has made a home of it. the world is in greyscale which we think is a certain
way 
of beautiful. sometimes limited visibility is a blessing. another blessing:
at the cemetery two blocks from the house that used to be ours,
the ground 
is too cold for digging, the metal shovel sticks to skin.
it is no use, anyway – here, there is nothing to bury. that’s the thing
about this kind of losing: 
the mourning begins and ends
with a breathing body. it’s just that now i can’t hear
the breath or sound of skin 
touching itself or your alarm
in the morning. two thousand miles of land 
will do that. you are not
a creature made for cold and that is all this midwestern state has ever
given you. maybe it is all i have ever given you. at breakfast i look at my life
without you the way i know you see everything: through a jar of honey,
the light 
through an orange slice. you are in love with the hour
before sunset and that 
i can’t compete with. i am waiting to love
whatever day ends the snow.

pinned

it’s snowing in the first week of april
and it feels like it’s all i can take.
it heaps on hoods and branches
while i dance frantically in our empty living
room. the music is so loud i would fear
for the speakers if i could. i’m drinking straight
from the moonshine jar i’ve been saving
for a special time. i wanted to wait,
share it with you or at least drink it
while you watched, kiss you a hundred
sixty proof and let the dog lap up
the spills. instead i’m left with the best
option that doesn’t include you. what i must
look like to passerby through the windows:
a sugar drunk girl, body like a sheet
pinned to a clothesline. i hide the moonshine
behind a lamp where i hope you’ll find it whenever
you are here again. when i hope you’ll worry
just a little. i crack a screen-less window
and the snow swirls in like a cloud.
it is not wrong for you to be gone
today. there’s no day where it’s wrong
for you to be gone. it’s that you are gone
on all the wrong days when it’s too snowy
or rainy or sunny or anything to read quietly
on the couch or appreciate red wine or
pretend i’m doing anything other
than trying to make someone on the sidewalk
see me and think i look happy.

valentina

twice a week i teach philosophy to kids
at the salvation army. they’re eight, nine, ten. we sit
on cheap plastic and ask each other questions
which are better than answers. the kids almost all
have it tough at home. that is not something
i can fix. it’s my job to teach them to sculpt
a good society even if their hands won’t ever get big
enough to fix this one. some days they’re too tired:
one little girl falls asleep with her head in her hands
like she is used to sleeping sitting up and i wake her
to ask what makes art art. she tells me her papa is all tattoo,
so her papa is art, and so she is a little bit art also.
i have tattoos, i like how ink looks under skin but
i don’t think i would like her papa. on the days
he remembers to come pick Valentina up
i see teardrops pricked into his cheek. when he lifts her,
her body shrinks to half its size. i want to tell her
it is not your father’s tattoos that make you.
i ask the kids to draw a picture they think is art
and another they think is not, and Valentina keeps asking
for new sheets of paper—she can’t draw
one that isn’t art, she says. i tell her
that’s a good problem to have.

face full of kisses

i am still wearing the sequin dress
from new years eve somehow
it has not wrinkled. i am still fish scales

& metal. the skin on my legs peels
like a sticker but my palms are firm
and tight as persimmon skins. i prefer

to be fruit with a pit. berries are too
soft. i cannot afford to turn mush in the heat.
i tell you i might need some Real Help

this time. someone who knows
the right things to say or how to write
prescriptions. it is hard to find

the line between sad where you
just need to climb out of the hole and
the kind that has already begun

to bury you. Real Help is above
my pay grade. this fear spreads like strawberries.
how else do things end up the way they end

up? i look wrapped in aluminum foil.
i tell myself once, it looked sexy.
once your back arched a question

& your pockets were always full
of quarters. there is lipstick beneath
my eyes no i can’t wipe this off, this

face full of kisses. it is how i know
i have been in one place too long.
there are different ways to live

without stagnancy. one way is to keep
finding new cities that can’t swallow you.
another is to find new people that will.

there is a cost to this motion, an art
to living longer than you can afford.
your body flaps like a drying dish

towel pulled tight by thin line. you say
you are grateful, that i am good
at doing what ever it is we are doing.

you believe that only if you don’t know
what this is, this thing separate
from our bodies that we are starving,

feeding, starving again. it’s better
when it’s hungry, when there is a want
between us. i am stuck in this city

without help, without water
deep enough to drown
and too many nice dresses. i am

trying to coax myself out of this dirt
and into stillness for you. you hug me
from behind and your arms knot

like rope. i have never been good at staying
put. i was made a wheel, a motor.
or maybe a wing.

running

i can’t tell what this is about, this want
for running. yesterday it was seven.
today, ten miles. my knees look like
tomatoes, squishy with the swell.
i have never been able to run that far.
walking down stairs takes twice
as long and both hands on the rails,
a full body endeavor. it started when
i stopped being so sad all the time.
or maybe i’m not so sad all the time
because of this. this self care
is indistinguishable from trying to hurt
just enough—it is harder to feel anything
much when the body is so tired.
the options: joints like vegetables
left too long in the sun & a touch
of seratonin. or body intact, unswollen & too
little want to leave the shower. once
i spent four hours behind the curtain
and only left because my heart beat
felt wrong from all the heat. no towel.
the water made a river to my bed.
the mold started slowly, sheets wet
for days it was like sleeping
inside a dewey corn husk it almost felt good
but not quite. nothing ever quite
felt good. now i am hair damp after
a normal length shower, legs
covered in bags of ice. a roommate finds me,
asks why do you do that to yourself. it is hard
to be honest the only real thing
to say is that it makes the bad thing
into something different. the last winter
storm knocks hard on the front door.
the roommate answers it, walks out
onto the porch in just his boxers. it’s hard
to see him, even so close. he leaves
the porch, down the street with no shoes.
the snow looks like pillows swinging
at his body. i imagine it doesn’t feel
quite so soft. maybe it is the good
kind of hurt.