Your compulsive tendencies
ordering and fitting each item in the bag like
Tetris,
one of the few things you are the puppeteer of
Like two peas in a pod
or a two-person assembly line
we work together
Sometimes we forget to bring our own
bags, and I see the stress rise in your bones
I tell you it’s fine, we’ll remember them
next time
a routine so mundane it becomes tedious
a constant in our lives
a weekly ritual
Until the day your independence
screeches to a stop
we are still a pair, albeit a fissured pair
You order the groceries online and
I begrudgingly go to the store and gather
the eight double-bagged plastic bags
a routine so mundane it becomes tedious
a constant in our lives
still a weekly ritual
until the day you dissipate
A Ford model and a voracious writer
A cancer patient with a bald head that
marveled
I am Obsessed with her
I want to be her carbon copy
In baldness I see a striking semblance
the tip of her nose
the contours of her collar bone
Her smile and her boisterous laugh and
the BRCA2 gene she gifted
Someday I may have a mastectomy and a
hysterectomy to match. Twins.
I wait for you to come back
like in a dream made of
a face that doesn’t
quite make sense
you’re on the other side,
through molasses
Giddy with grief
I wait for it to pass
My vision gets smaller and my appetite
Bigger
my body expands to accommodate
the company I stuff down my gullet
it doesn’t disperse
I push it down further
churning and digesting
Ready to rise up my throat and strike
again
I’m defeated in a vortex that
won’t spit me out
put on those faded leather boots
you’ll be dancing four hours at least
assert your body, devious child
don’t think too hard
remember when you
twirled in circles and
crawled under tables
hear the music pulsing?
I know you do
people gaze like sheep
be a gazelle and leap
a breath into viscid air
dance until you’re worn and sick
of moving
fill me, I beg
to my carnal, primal urges
daringly insipid
disgusting in their prime porous holes
sealed like wet concrete
bubbling and burrowing deeper inside
help! I changed my mind, but
the concrete molds and forms
encasing my desperate plea
unseemly scents lure me on the street;
Bleecker Street pizza with
the freshest mushrooms
with garbage bags tossed and
piled on the street
and trees smiling sweetly
the wind taps me on the shoulder
and seventh ave winks at me;
its precious street carved with
the hustle and bustle of a Tuesday
They were her diamond studs and she never took
them off
I admired them across the room and up close
when I curled in the crook of her arm
Sometimes they looked like a cloudy sky. They
weren’t shiny, dazzling diamonds. They were
ordinary studs.
Diminished in the hospital bed, her open
mouth sagging and her glassy eyes pointed
upwards, I see them.
I want to take them for myself. I am a
graveyard thief, stealing from a vulnerable
corpse. Instead, I take a selfie with a bloated
body
The cremators save the studs
a stud in each lobe, I never take them off
It’s like the goldilocks chair,
but it never quite fits
It’s only comfortable for a few minutes
I want a chair that I can sit in for hours,
but this one isn’t it
I feel obligated to provide comfort and warmth
I force myself to sit,
and the chair defies gravity
I’m being pulled down towards the floor,
but I’m stuck on the wall
the room shifts around me
my eyes are blurry, and
I see burning lights
the walls are sliding down around me
I don’t know how to get down
Making pancakes together is a supple dream
flipping buckwheat pancakes
in a test of perfections
They’re bubbling; mumbling like they have a
secret
Quick, she says, guiding me while I wobble
with the long spatula
Barely tall enough to use the stove
I flip them shakily, dipping my foot in the pond
Rippling into a sloppy curve
a deformed pancake is all I see
We put bananas and walnuts in next
pushing them in like buttons
I watch the edges get crispy and brown
That’s how you know they’re done
I see a paradise in the distance
Is it clouds, or a city?
maybe that’s what heaven looks like
It’s hard to tell from this small window
with streams of light pouring in
I can almost smell the fresh air,
but the window is locked, and
the view shifts from here
I want it to be my city
Cleaner
not quieter though, never quiet
the clouds are golden-gray and puffy,
proving clouds are never gone for good
I imagine reading a book in the clouds
like I’m swinging in a hammock
Oh! now it turns to the beach
an immaculate beach that I can practically step onto
the sand seems so close
I see a hammock strung up between two palm trees
I wonder where this is, but I suppose it doesn’t matter
I smell the salty, briny air and hear seagulls dipping through the air
the bright, sunny light changes to a dark, overcast day
a storm is coming
I don’t understand what your problem is.
You sure you want that?
Do you think it’ll satisfy your
sweet tooth?
I think you have rotten teeth
bodies,
this body,
blood,
dirt,
molasses,
Pepsi,
flowers, glass bottles and flutes,
pink paint and journals,
white fabric cut downtown
the scent of her skin, her belly laugh,
her ferocity, her candor, her fragility,
her paintings and collages and poems
her green and yellow eyes and wild hair
these things I miss so much it makes
my throat tight and my teeth clench
it’s not fair, I scream into the abyss -
it crawls into my pores and shields my eyes,
pulling me under,
back in the arms of my disease
into a soft and seductive hole all by myself
We
love to
torture ourselves.
We
are more
masochistic
than we give credit.
It doesn’t take choking
or a paddle to
the ass
or being tied up
to lose feeling.
The
stories we
tell
do plenty.
Dripped in
honey;
it’s
sweet and it
sticks.
a maverick among other things,
I fall in love with a city shrouded
by skyscrapers and tiny ants
high up, the raindrops are fat,
falling heavily on my skin
I get wet looking down
and see through rusted cracks
a maverick, among other things
He makes me want to
dance on glass and
grind my teeth on
Hershey kisses.
Is this love?
a 14-year-old girl creeps out of her room around midnight
the hallway is deserted
her hair is parted into French braids. she tucks her earbuds in,
clenches her iPod Nano, and starts moving
she glances around, feeling self-conscious but determined
she puts on her favorite song and turns up the volume
she punches the air in time to the music
she practically leaps down the hall, jumping into her own world of joy
she’s in shorts and a mismatched tank top
it’s July in Barcelona; the humid heat drums on her skin
she wavers, catching a glimpse of color and movement
a 16-year-old boy she has a crush on, and his friends,
come around the corner
they stumble, standing awkwardly, and
watch a girl dance in circles and sing off-pitch
to a song they can’t hear
the boy unveils a shy smile
she catches his smile, heart pounding
one of them nudges the boy and they
retreat toward their room. music still playing,
she picks up the pace,
and disappears down the hall
I have this memory that feels more like a dream:
I writhe on the floor to one of my dad’s old vinyl
records
Maybe it’s The Rolling Stones or Cream,
I can’t recall. The sun dotes starbursts and stripes of
light on my skin
Mom and Grandma sit at the kitchen table, letting
their tea steep
Out of the corner of my eye, I see them talking and
watching me from a distance. They think I’m in my
own world, unaware
I hear Mom say how much I seem to love dancing
In my mind, I shrug, and keep twisting my eight-
year-old body on the carpet
I move to the music; an avalanche tumbling down
I’m drowning but I stay afloat
like a buoy bobbing in the sea,
I drift
The water rises but I seize the tide
like bubbles escaping a Vintage seltzer,
I pop
Sturdy and resilient,
with those green veins
snaking through,
I admire their freckled elegance
Snappy and tender
they are the hands that reassure me
and squeeze me and point to my
messy room
No longer gripping flutes and cigarettes,
but paint brushes and inked pens, her
fingers flail over tight edges and crisp paper
Her olive-skinned hands crackle in delight
while oolong tea steams and steeps
It echoes in my ears; the Colorado river
spilling through the canyon
I walk in and stand in the studio
with bright sunny light filing in
an old iMac sits in the corner
and plays “fade into you” on
loop. I don’t need to tell you
who sings it
a breeze floats into the empty
room
except for me
the room feels full
The waves crash like a dog too excited
to see me, a bull too desperate to
slow down, lunging for my chest,
begging for attention
Sometimes it’s strong, racing towards
me like a hurricane
Other times it gives up before
reaching my toes, and gently
recedes back to its master, the moon
When it engulfs me, I’m held. A rough
cloud made of silk, clutching my hand
I’m happy nervous excited and thrilled
to be in
the luxurious business of
euphoria
and
destruction
it’s the year of the binge
and my stomach is empty like a
liquor cabinet
I’m not desperate,
I just want a companion, a
friend if you will, to make time
go faster. I need sunlight
like anyone else, but please
don’t drown me.
I like sitting on
the edge
where I can be taken care of
Time is a frustrating matter
it doesn’t tell us anything
save for the White Rabbit
that savior of time to remind
us how to keep moving and
smother the timepiece
tick tock… tick tock… tick tock…
clasping it tightly until
we’re stroking nothing but the air
She takes her time seeing things, unfurling scenes
through green and orange rings. sometimes closer to
blue and yellow like a sunflower twisted in the sky;
like mine
She casts her hands at the sky, saying “aren’t those pink
clouds beautiful?”
with urgency
I open my mouth to speak
She slows, unhurried by time,
like molasses spilling its secrets
while I trip to stay on her toes,
tracing this dance in my mind
Her sharp eyes pierce through like
the sun breaking clouds.
some might call them beady until she bursts out
laughing,
a laugh that hollers from deep in her belly and splits
into a wide smile
She tries hard to fool. But I know her. I know what is underneath.