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.

the last sad poem

i wish now i had written you
more love poems. i wish i hadn’t
written us as drowning when
we weren’t, wish i hadn’t written
the fear into domesticity so soon.
i wish i had always chosen to be gentle.
now, we are all wish. maybe we have
always been that, all each other’s
almost-what-i-want’s. i keep
referring to us in the past tense.
i try to convince myself the unconscious
doesn’t know anything. it is not
a meaningful slip. these little lies
are okay but they seem to grow
on their own. once i nearly convinced
myself you aren’t leaving. it was
only a second but it felt so good.
what pieces do i get to keep?
the way you and the dog sleep
with your bodies curled the same.
how you push up your glasses
with your middle finger like they might slide
off your nose and keep
sliding. the angle of your mouth
when you are disappointed, the little
shake of your head. how tight
your curls get when they’re dirty.
once when we stood in front
of art we both probably thought
was stupid and i wanted you
to keep me like a quarter under
your tongue—the secret is
worth the most. it used to be hard
to tell what it is that i love: knowing
there will be a body in the bed
each morning, or that it is only
ever your body. maybe it has just
become too hard to imagine
anyone else. these little lies pile
up like spare change.

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?

spit-smooth

we are sitting around the dining room table trying not to think
about how it is the last time we will. the ceiling hangs over
our eyes like a cloth so we touch hands, cheeks, lick salt
and dirt off each others noses. it tastes too good to be
the last time we all come to rest between my teeth. the mouth
is not made a place to keep things but we have given it
our best. we are worn spit-smooth, good under thumb
and tongue. i have done nothing that matters more than making
this, this object shaped like a good skipping stone built of our bodies,
of my little black dog, a hundred ripe bananas and the way we insist
on brushing our teeth at the same time. i want to draw in each
of us where i can’t imagine us not. it’s hard to lose something
all at once that you gained little by little. though i am not sure
it would be better to lose every piece of this house, this life we built
at the speed we made it. to wake up one morning with a hole
where the stove was. the next day, we undo our laundry and bicker
for the first time. some day the hole will be one of us. no, it is better
like this. there is a joy in seeing how far you can throw even
the afternoon’s best stone.