the view from behind glass

sometimes both the men i love
stand in the same room, touch
shoulders.

sometimes they take bits of food
from each other’s plates, order
the same dessert.

i want to take both their hearts
lower them into a glass jar,
fill the empty space with honey.

two years and i will break the seal.
there will only be one left.
the other heart will have dissolved
like salt in warm water.

nesting

i build him a nest beneath my diaphragm:
collected bits of gum wrapper, dark hairs,
unraveled thread, abandoned earring backs
for months, flooded my pockets with
the folded corners of strangers’ lives
and then swallowed them,
prayed they’d arrange themselves inside me.

when i told him i found a place he could sleep,
he was eager until discovery:
i’d have to swallow him, too.
i promised to take him with a cool glass of water,
swore i’d never dream of using my teeth.

sandpapered

she was the reason for tuesday morning poetry.
i have been trying to remember the details:
blue eyeliner trailed to crisp point, the breaking point
of pacific waves, flatness of her cheekbones like someone
sandpapered them down, a smooth finish.

jeans tugged to reach tops of her socks, jumping above her
ripe-cherry bones – ankles a stripe of skin smooth
against dark denim. i like to imagine calling her baby –
a word i have never used to warm the shoulders
of anyone else and she wears it like a fur stohl
nuzzling her dimpled nose into the small dead thing.
Relishing her title like a piece of ripe fruit,
baby, baby, blue wave break baby.