at 1:19 i woke up wanting
to get dressed and walk to school
wait for you to come to your 7:30 class
to ask what color of shirt you wore yesterday
tell you i wore black and that my feet were hurting
as i walked from classroom to classroom
and that they’ve buried the fish without me
Jun 29, 2011
Jun 29, 2011 at 10:01 AM UTC
you undressed me. shy,
as if I haven’t let you before,
you untied, kissed me up the thigh.
you undressed me. shy,
as if you haven’t kissed up my (sigh),
you locked the door, you did more and did more.
you undressed me, shy,
as if I haven’t let you before.
May 11, 2011
May 11, 2011 at 4:47 AM UTC
there is a wide blanket
pure warm wool and all, and ours
only during the driest of summers
and never in the wetness of August
in pushing winds, in pouring rain
Apr 5, 2011
Apr 5, 2011 at 7:09 AM UTC
like spiders, we wrestled
into your wide white mattress.
your legs, all eight of them,
entangled in all eight of mine.
Mar 30, 2011
Mar 30, 2011 at 12:34 AM UTC
this heart, like a child, threw a tantrum.
it demanded to know where you are
why you went
how long it takes to get there
and when I said “it’s too far
I can’t take you”
it begged to know when you will come back.
Mar 18, 2011
Mar 18, 2011 at 5:32 AM UTC
sometimes people walk home with hands
inside pockets or pulling on straps
of backpacks– unaware they’re
dripping blood so pungent
that stray dogs
kept away
Feb 10, 2011
Feb 10, 2011 at 3:40 AM UTC
scared? he asks.
yes, I say.
of what? he asks.
your smoke
your songs
your sin,
I say.
oh, he says.
my heart; it falls,
I say.
then fall, he says.
unfair, I say.
why? he asks.
will you stay?
I ask.
I can’t, he says.
scared? I ask.
yes, he says.
of what? I ask.
your hair
your heart
your heat,
he says.
oh, I say.
my heart; it falls,
he says.
coward, I say.
his lips, I kiss.
Nov 17, 2010
Nov 17, 2010 at 8:41 PM UTC
i wanted to touch you--
but not just your hand.
and not just touch.
Nov 16, 2010
Nov 16, 2010 at 12:15 PM UTC
It’s been weeks,
and the refrigerator stands empty.
Except for our bed sheet,
nothing has remained on the clothesline-
everything else has been carried away
by the wind.
In the old parking lot,
strangers sometimes find bras and underwear.
Handkerchiefs and
your black socks.
It’s been weeks
and sometimes I accidentally reach out
to your side of the bed.
Nov 7, 2010
Nov 7, 2010 at 12:20 PM UTC
He emptied the glass
and ran back into the kitchen for more,
but he couldn’t save her.
Nov 1, 2010
Nov 1, 2010 at 10:56 PM UTC