(i keep writing the same poem)

i can tell already she writes poems about men
and her body – sometimes apart. more often
together. when the professor looks at her,
fingers walk her collarbones like tightrope.


Little poems (about sex?)

it is too early for sleeping.
i bump my body into his
however i can. rub lotion-
slick legs against the sheets.
leave them dark and greasy.


i told him to pull my hair:
wanted a fist full of me yanked
down my back like a zipper.
but he tugs loosely at the ends,
trying to un-knit yarn.
i do not come undone so gently.

tools for cleaning

i grab the dog’s front paws, lift
him half off the kitchen tile.
we dance to chicken spitting on the burner
and norah jones curling from speakers
like mist. the song ends and the dog’s patience
along with it. he returns to vacuuming
the floor with his mouth. my mouth
has never worked well as a tool for cleaning.
i keep dancing in the silence
between tracks. the album toys with my body
like a wicked lover. the chicken burns.