the steaming water licks the shower liner again
merging mildew and plastic bleeding sunlight
through the window will only dry a little and the rest will
continue to grow who will water the plants
when I skip town dehydration the alcoholic's home
and sunlight won’t be what they lack singeing chlorophyll
a neglected Tabby bury the fur in the ground
where the maggots digest rot fill him up
close the holes taxidermy erases the solitude that leads to this
smudge the house facing east seal the attic door
pick up the newspapers plant the Foxgloves in March
collect dust bunnies and dishes see no other visitors
mail the postcard with geographical coordinates burn the poems
and let the flames graze you if it is warmth you lack
Feb 12, 2018
Feb 12, 2018 at 11:48 AM UTC
You and her are collecting coquina shells and dropping them in the indigo bucket so they won’t get too homesick. You wonder if they know they are aware of what is happening so you fish one out of the bucket and it crawls a little bit out of its shell. The scattered blue button jellyfish make it difficult to see where the ocean stops and the land begins and her white gauze outfit seems as if it is trying to escape from her body giving into the tugging wind. She says “don’t let the voices of other people override that feeling in the pit of your stomach because that **** is always right” in between sips of her margarita. Her salt-rimmed lips brush your forehead and tell you to come up to the house in twenty minutes because dinner will be ready then. You, her, and your fifty-two shell companions sit in front of the television spooning microwaved beef stroganoff from plastic container to mouth. While she reads her western romance novel you check on the shells and the makeshift beach you’ve created for them and that feeling in the pit of your stomach begins to swell. It feels like you’ve swallowed all of the blue button jellyfish as a public service so everyone can see the clear divide between water and earth. She has fallen asleep in her chair and you know because of her extinguished cigarette hissing in the ashtray that snaps you out of your head. It’s time to place the shells back on the shore because the separation from land and water is visible from the house. This makes you feel guilty because the jellyfish are gone too, so you sprinkle the shells in the incoming tide, poetically.
Feb 12, 2018
Feb 12, 2018 at 11:46 AM UTC
I dread the day
That I see you
Through someone else
Like if I'm waiting
In line at the grocery store
And the person in front
Of me brushes their hair
Out of their face
Just the way you used to
Dec 16, 2016
Dec 16, 2016 at 12:03 PM UTC
The bright moon.
A plane blinking its lights.
They smile at each other.
Dec 7, 2016
Dec 7, 2016 at 2:51 PM UTC