nothing is real at 4 a.m. but coyotes
I didn’t know we had here. they make noise.
nothing else does.
my breath makes smoke. the air
makes smoke
against my breath.
winter comes at 4 a.m. when the neighbors
are asleep, a sigh
the only sign of life. only sometimes.
I don’t sigh. I make no noise—
(the way it should be)
do faces change
when light goes out?
do you recognize me in the dark?
do eyes become holes, do mouths
become holes,
is my head a black hole
because of the dark?
when the light goes on
the neighbors will stir, make noise.
coyotes will retreat
from where they don’t belong.
it remains unknown
whether eyes will return to eyes.
Mar 15, 2015
Mar 15, 2015 at 6:04 PM UTC
I.
los angeles is nearing fire season—
soon, ash will be falling
in place of rain, drowning houses
down the hill
in the flesh of their neighbors.
II.
I’ve given up writing much.
the succulents in my skull are too thirsty
to survive.
Mar 3, 2015
Mar 3, 2015 at 1:54 AM UTC
I.
it isn’t much:
chairs crowded with cans of Rolling Rock
bleached by the sun’s touch
and bulldozed bamboo stalks
out back; out front, nothing—
empty space, garbage cans, paths blocked
by branches and twigs. from the porch swing
I see little but trampled leaves
in fall and stunted daffodils in spring.
II.
fall through spring, I sit and swing and grieve—
for sunshine or snow fall that weaves
through ancient, uprooted trees;
for wiggling, loose-tooth stars that plea
to fall anywhere but close to me.
Mar 3, 2015
Mar 3, 2015 at 1:28 AM UTC
she calls once a week from the bus—
forty minutes to the hospital—with updates:
the surgery went well. the swelling
should be down in time to start
treatments next week.
it’ll be four hours a day, then.
the dogs are getting lonely.
she’s already lost five pounds.
the church put her on the prayer list.
she wishes I were there.
I make french toast for breakfast on school days;
I drink green tea four times a day; I run
twelve miles a week. I light vanilla incense
and wash my hair in the sink. I sleep
alone except on nights
I don’t want to sleep alone—I take Xanax
to stop the dreams. I clean the floors
twice a week; I soak in bubbles
every Sunday; I cradle an onyx necklace
between two fingers to keep
any demons away.
I call my mother once a week to say I scrubbed
the bathtub and dried the dishes by hand—
that I wrote a new poem
and ate donuts for lunch—that I have
two cigarettes each morning
and two glasses of wine
at night—the extra one for her. I tell her
how I pray for her,
the only ways she taught me how.
Mar 3, 2015
Mar 3, 2015 at 1:28 AM UTC