so fast so quietly

we are tearing the black sheet
of the land with our headlights.
traveling this fast should make
more noise. how are we allowed
to escape so fast so quietly?
it is my favorite way to feel good.
the music must be playing it’s always
playing in moments like this but
i rarely remember. it’s just sound
until it isn’t — then it’s a song an old
lover used to sing or one the new
love sings and suddenly i miss
feeling lonely. i want to wake up
back seat of the car / gas station
parking lot / marveling about how
cold the desert gets at night.
maybe what i really miss: being allowed
to feel lonely. i am tired
of knowing who makes me coffee,
tired of forgetting to water plants only
long enough to keep them teetering
on the edge of death. i wish i was less
reliable. sometimes i wish i was the girl
you fucked instead of loving me. she got you
for one splendid minute and now can wake up
anywhere. she has never folded
your laundry or made a pbj when too drunk
to hold even a butter knife. that’s really
what this is about — this stupid thing
i remember into existence every morning.
one day i want to feel okay standing still,
in a small space i can’t leave. why does
this city feel like a box? i wish at least
it was the inside of a suitcase. the space within
the headlights shrinks. i turn on the high
beams and decide to starve the houseplants.

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(10/13/18)

what do i say except for falling
asleep with your arms around
my head like a basketball
is the greatest thing i have ever
gotten to know. the weight of
your arms is too much,
your chest puts my breathing
at half strength and i can’t
turn or scratch or move anything
without waking you and it will
always be worth it.

9/25/18

this is the best i have ever been
at loving anything. it has always
been a problem of too’s: too much
want for one body, too little focus.
but this, finally-equilibrium. to teach
children to stand one-legged, say:
pick a point in the distance, don’t
move your eyes. it was never not
knowing this trick it was just always
too hard to pick only one point.

9/17/18

things that were once hard to love
have become precious with the threat
of absence. it is so hard not to be afraid.
what parts of you have already begun
to grow distant? i am scared to sit even
on the other side of the table. i wash
your forks and love you. i put your shoes
in a row by the door and love you.
i touch my mouth to your side of the bed
and try to imagine it as just the other
side. this is a helplessness i don’t know
what to do with. you are drunk and talking
so loudly, clearly in your sleep it sounds
like a wedding toast. i put your liquor
hands over my face and love you, still.
i never learned to want things
i can’t just worker harder to keep.

under pink light

i want you
to look at me:
strewn across
our bed, above
the blankets
but under pink
salt lamp light.
all crevice and
dip, no place
to balance a cup.
legs like a line
of tennis balls
inside a sock.
my mother said
don’t wear
horizontal stripes
they don’t do anyone
any favors. i haven’t
touched anything
striped in years.
i am all about
the long lines. all
about underwear
with more lace
than cloth, tight
in the right spots.
an hour under water
hot enough to cook
a small animal, no
more gentle cleansers.
you slide beneath
the blankets like
there isn’t a whole
human in front
of you. a whole
woman who could
be anywhere else.
what more can i do
to this body
to make you
want it?

two snippets~

you sit outside until we grow
dark. i can hear you like a mouse
in a box, the shuffle of a small
thing without light. how can i
tell you i would listen to you run
into cardboard walls face first
forever. your arms seem wide
enough to hold anything all
at once: when you pick up the dog
it is almost too much. you are growing
into yourself. there are fewer
empty spaces. the dog and i
are both helpless: legs or arms
reaching for another minute tight
to your body.

***

this is how it wins. first
it is on you like a tick or a bit
of sharpie or a small piece
of jewelry. then it is around your
neck all feathers and soft but so
heavy. it slides down shoulders
a cloak now or a dress now
it is bigger than the body now you
are being worn. you say little but
make a good broach.

sugar high

i spend the whole afternoon making cakes
you won’t eat. they all turn trash differently.
the lemon turns dark where it touches air,
the blue-gray of storm clouds. the pumpkin:
frosting turns sour first. the carrot — each bit
of shaved vegetable starts to grow mold,
the rest of the cake remains. i try to read the rot
like tarot. i am not sure what this means for us.
i imagine i am getting better which does
nothing. i imagine you are getting better at handling me
which does worse than nothing. when the mold
overwhelms them, i leave heaps in the front yard.
the city animals ride the sugar high for days,
careening across the telephone wires and falling asleep
wild-eyed under tires. the street in front of our house
is part asphalt part fur. you say the city should clean up
this public death. you feel the dried, flat skins
on your body like punishment. you should have
just eaten the cake. i had to make them,
crowding us out of our small kitchen like artifacts
from a happy life. i am fooling no one. when i stand
on our porch the road screams with a dozen toothy mouths.