rain race

leaving the restaurant we find ourselves
caught in the cold blast of movie-rain,
the kind of downpour that is a thousand ropes
connecting earth to sky. you are hell bent
on not getting wet and I refuse
to get wet alone. the car is four blocks away
so we run: you with your coat wrapped
like a blanket over your head, arms
like pistons, your pants darkening
in rivers up your legs. you have always
been faster than me but once
you were kinder. now, we run along
the unmarked border between love
and whatever end awaits us otherwise.
I chase after the momentary dams
of your feet, watching your heels rise
and fall like a fair ride growing small
in the distance. the streetlights float
atop the concrete like dozens of perfectly
spaced moons, pale faces just below
the surface. I imagine the street might open
like an ocean, the smooth dark asphalt
turned sea, deep and without
warning. that one moment I’d be running
through heavy ribbons of rain
and the next I’d be settling in the black
of ocean floor, perfect and unreachable
as shipwreck. instead, the concrete
proves solid beneath my feet. I find you
already in the passenger seat, jacket
stripped and panting, your clothes
as dark as the pavement, your skin
another light source. the inside of your
arm, dripping and white as tusk, the veins
like blue fish, exploring the parts of you
where I am no longer welcome.

listening to Coltrane while watching you play video games

it has been the year of jazz
in darkness. I cut my hand
on something I couldn’t see,
barely believed the blood was mine.
wrapped the flesh too thick
in gauze and tape,
made my fist a tool useless for loving
now everything tastes like copper.
I drink ice and ice until my mouth
becomes too cold for tasting.
half your face shadowed screen blue,
your pupils scuttle back and forth
like trapped bugs. a saxophone solo climbs
over the sound of pixel swords
clashing but you won’t be outdone,
yelling at your declining lives,
the insincerity of animated death.
I listen for the reliable high
hat’s sharp shush in the black.
a small piece of unshifting ground.
it is easier to love each other if we can’t see
what body we’re stuck with
though I do miss the strange ticks
of your mouth: your lips folding into petals
your tongue skimming the cusp
of mustache your teeth grinding like stones
under the low throb of the bass.
we buy plants together knowing
they’ll die unceremoniously
in this windowless room, spend
finite money on philodendron
silk leafed, doomed from the start.
their heart-leaves sound
like the soft crunch of beetles
beneath bare feet, honest
and final with their end. we discover
so many house plants
are poisonous to our dogs
but it takes precious time
to learn this

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.

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.

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.


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.