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.

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

(Day 3)

this city rises like a mole beneath my fingers.
when i scratch, it bleeds and stays scab

for weeks. this is the universe’s way of telling
me i have been in one place too long.
i have never been good at staying

put. i was made a wheel. or maybe
a wing. my mother tells me if you scratch
a mole too much it becomes cancer. i inspect

the scabs suspiciously. each one looks
like the back of a beetle.