milk summer

I move around his body like glass or a fragile plant,
skirting its edges, touching it only with cupped
hands, feeding & watering on careful schedule.

I fear the finality of his presence, the fullness
of his being here. his lungs, life, picked
up and dragged cross country for what?

proximity, to sleep with sheets instead of states
between us. milkshakes nearly every day
in this summer that won’t break

and a dog for each of us. it’s everything
we wanted but the thing about satisfaction
is it doesn’t last. we’re on the edge of what

could go wrong. the scale could tip so many
ways: I leave chocolate out for an empty house
and the dogs turn up dead, we forget how

and why we used to fuck, he refuses hand towels
that match the curtains. our indulgences
grow foreign and soon don’t indulge in each other.

I wish I wasn’t scared of so many ways
we could end up. I want to move
through this city like a lover. unencumbered

by the weight of what we have already
given up. I want to see more futures
of us, park benched and satisfied

with our sweet small lives.

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coming home

when he says he’s coming home
after a month in another state
doing what is promised necessity,
it feels like the end of a good book.
i have grown used to leftovers, to
the full width of the bed, constant
music over the good speakers.
there are two dogs and I have two
hands. the dishes are always done.

sure, there have been small
lonlinesses. once i realized I hadn’t
spoken aloud the entire day.
another time the old dog was sick
and i was alone with the fear so big
it took up the whole couch. i stood
or walked for two days until
the dog kept down dinner again.

i do what i should to ready
myself: i bake a pie he likes
or has significance, i vacuum
twice and darken the duster.
i know he won’t want it,
will mourn the death of the dust
mites and leave his plate
on the table just so it feels
like his home, too. i will resent

his little rebellions and dream myself,
as though mid snow-angel,
spread wide and happy.

(untitled still)

because the dark is the only time
the heat is breathable, we walk.
it’s what we share: restlessness
past discomfort, feet like old

leather. past the cicada tree
so loud it spooks the dog, leaves
me light tongued and ringing.
a man yells from a passing

suv, his voice swallowed
by this summer-gone-sour.
i am almost thankful for his
practiced flattery but mostly

made to feel thin cotton
sucking at skin, sweat
in tributaries down my stomach,
outline of my tits dark

with wet. i wish i wasn’t so quiet
with my body, that i could rub
myself together and scream.
cicadas’ singing is a series of ribs

buckling in on themselves, clicking
as they cave. i suppose my body
makes sounds in its collapse.
sounds no one would call

song. if it isn’t about loneliness
it’s a lie. i am walking because
i want to, because the dog needs
a little extra attention today

is a lie. the glossy insects live
underground sucking at roots
and wriggling unglamorously
for seventeen years. then:

one supreme month under only
streetlights, risen from the dirt
to die. a strange instinct: to die
in the open. i wonder if it’s worth
the wait.

(anxious)

it is feeling my heart like a rattlesnake
on and off again somewhere i can’t
touch or quite understand. was that too
long off or too long on i’m unsure. i am
too afraid of my own body, of it’s ability
to fail. just one wrong piece at the top
of the row of dominos. the waterfall.
i turn on everything: the television,
the computer, phone. every light in this
little room. it is so bright but still not
enough. sitting in myself hurts. sitting
hurts. i try to climb anywhere but inside
and can’t.

going out with gusto

seven year old me said when i die
i want to go by tornado. scooped
up and whirled and whirled until
probably some fatal airborne collision
or the wind tired of me, dumped me
onto something sharp or hard or
just too far down. this was the best
i could imagine: some kind of glory,
gusto, pizzaz. maybe there’d be
a body maybe there wouldn’t.
the mystery felt good out loud.

i have considered other ways.
for a while it was getting smaller
until i winked out. one minute
we’re talking and maybe you
can see through me a little but
i am definitely there and the next:
air. surely it can’t be this lovely
but the imaginings were sweet.
this time it might have been closer
than the tornado but not much.

i spent a few months thinking
of keeping a tally on my hands
and a few days doing it. of what
it didn’t matter: maybe the cups
of coffee i drank or the number
of dogs i saw and then the number
of times i wanted to see a whole pack
of dogs all at once. that wishing
was the same as wishing for help
but i wouldn’t have believed it.

now mostly i’m boring. i try to forget
to fasten my seatbelt (though never
on the highway because somehow
that feels like too much). i chew
my fingers to bleeding and play
the overconfident pedestrian. i blink
comically slowly. it’s a silly charade
because it’s not. when i dream i dream
of tornadoes.

madison

this city is a quilt
of places i know.
it’s unavoidable: contact
with the familiar. each house
i’ve been is a reason
to leave. an ache. first
it’s Little Blue on Johnson
where my friends live
without me. i’ve eaten jam
and warmed biscuits here.
a stack of my bread baskets
sits on one counter and
they look like part of a stage
set. i go inside and can’t sit down.
i pass a house jack could have lived
but didn’t. i want to imagine
him inside but not expecting
me. sometimes it’s good
enough to know someone
is there. still playing
the guitar or slicing mushrooms
or smoking a cigarette or
next, it’s where i came,
once, after a date to let
a boy rub himself on my
legs or stomach or wherever
even though i didn’t really
want to. he grabbed
at the softness snuggled
around my waist and said
something about liking curvy
girls and then i liked him
even less. then, the place
a friend of a friend doesn’t live
anymore. people i love drank wine
on the porch and were happy.
it rained so we raced, bared bloody
feet through parking ramp
puddles screaming names
of those running screaming
my own name and not knowing
who it belonged to

cabin fever

we fuck hard enough to knock
the himalayan pink salt lamp off
the bedside table, send the organic
lube and shea butter tumbling
onto the carpet. the salt lamp remains
intact, but we check only once
we’re finished. the lamp falls about
every other time. but we replace
it in the same spot. we are dutiful
with our ions. this is winter fucking—
it is frantic, too little heat then too
much, a desperate attempt to feel
like the day accomplished something.
we try new things. some of them work.
most don’t. the sweat freezes on our
noses, condensation turns ice
on the window. it is us against the cold—
the only way to prevent us against
us. february can turn anyone.
the snow would be beautiful
if there was just less. your skin
is too pink under salt light. the days
pile up like a drift in front of our door.