but he wrote a line in some novel
about love as a hair clip left behind on the dresser.
his lover coming back for it later.
i still think it could've been your bobby pin, there, on my bedside table.
however, now that i'm single,
i much prefer hair ties.
Jun 25, 2016
Jun 25, 2016 at 1:52 AM UTC
The girl I love is in Brooklyn
and I don't have the currency to call
collect
the clouds in her eyes
and sew her a sky above
the heads of buildings
and smoke
cigarettes through telephone wires
or bodies
of water.
We're both trying to quit,
in our own ways.
Jun 6, 2016
Jun 6, 2016 at 2:37 PM UTC
Daffodils think they're sunflowers,
my grandmother thinks her couch is on fire,
I think you're still the same:
eyes faulty traffic lights,
chest an airbag in constant accident,
voice infrequent radio static.
Jun 6, 2016
Jun 6, 2016 at 2:33 PM UTC
great-grandma Corinne was always doomed
to leave the room just before a big event
she was in the bathroom across
the hallway the day I was born
she was in the supermarket across
the street the day her husband died
as is my fate to wish for love
in the moments before i leave
but i’d take a lifetime of clocks
ticking two breaths behind
to settle inside the cocoon of
your mouth for a whisper of time
May 24, 2016
May 24, 2016 at 4:20 PM UTC
that tasted like popcorn
and dirt; warm, and then
Alive.
The grass separates itself into individual blades
that glitter and dance
under the sky
like a million knives
floating
on
the
afternoon
tide.
Friend, I want to grow roots with you.
I want to make a home in you.
I am as raw as a newborn.
All that my body can handle
is the sweet juice of a peach
running
down
my
neck.
I never knew the sky could open as it has,
could fill me with cloud,
and the dust of what the first atoms
have left behind for us.
My body is a torch
to light with the world of your palms.
Use dandelions
as matches.
I am stripped of all pretense, bones
free of caveat and nicety.
Now, it is time to live as an
earthworm does. Softly, naked:
on the cheek of the
earth.
May 9, 2016
May 9, 2016 at 9:58 PM UTC
My friends’ voices hum softly
outside the open window,
like night-bees over sleeping dandelions
lulling me into dream.
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 3:38 PM UTC
The birds outside start their days early
hunting for worms
in the still-sleeping grass.
The fish in the bowl above my bed
parts the water, calling for Moses,
or breakfast. Whichever comes first.
For him, two freeze dried bloodworms.
For me, an old banana and a cup of cold coffee.
The two of us were bred for civility.
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 3:37 PM UTC
A time zone separation of 3 hours, in reality,
is nearly impossible.
When the soft sun is lifting your eyes in morning, I’ve already been up.
When I’m sleeping,
you’re still perched brightly on the cheek of the night sky,
etching love letters into its velvet.
I wish there was a way to yank back the clock’s hands,
peel at the skin of its fingertips
so we could live in a single minute
together,
counting the music of seconds,
like blood
rushing through our entwined arteries.
There was a time when we sat
on a dusky mountain face
and watched the moon rise.
You told me to find the comfort in
the fact that it’s always the same moon
no matter the distance.
Last night, the sky was too dark to tell.
Maybe there will come a day
when you’re not in L.A.
and I’m sick of New York
and we reconvene in Paris,
or Tokyo,
or maybe, a small meadow,
as the grass dances red
in the sun’s final hours,
where time
is antiquated
and we measure the passing of days
with the songs of sparrows.
Until then,
we’ll send our love through telephone wires
and call it
even
if it takes me 2 weeks to get back to you.
Apr 13, 2016
Apr 13, 2016 at 7:08 PM UTC
I love Brooklyn in the morning
because you’re always in the kitchen,
softly,
while your mother sleeps
and we drink coffee
to the hum of garbage trucks
and city birds
as the sun creeps its way into spring.
If we were birds,
you might an egret.
Maybe I’d be a finch.
Mockingbirds for mothers.
Bluejay fathers.
Let’s fly to the mountains
where the air allows us to think,
finally,
and take peyote on a dusky moonrise.
Cry with the sinking stars.
For now, we must satisfy ourselves
with telephone wires and call it even.
Cousins, but these days
co-travelers,
and in the morning,
coffee drinkers.
The other day
when you were walking down the street
I thought you might be growing wings.
I keep pulling hairs from my chin
and wishing they were feathers.
But maybe, that's just another form
of preening.
Apr 11, 2016
Apr 11, 2016 at 8:17 PM UTC
As a little girl,
I used to think my backyard
was the Garden of Eden.
When I turned 14
I had *** with a boy for the first time
behind the peonies bushes
because they were my mother’s favorite.
She didn’t notice.
Neither did the sky.
Hannah told me that when she has *** with her boyfriend,
she wants to live inside him.
I’ve always wondered what it would be like
to inhabit someone else’s body.
Less as rib, but more
as flesh, or breath.
Nobody ever asked Eve
if she liked ***
Maybe she was just using Adam for his *****
I’ve been trying to convince myself
that ******* boys with my shirt on is feminist.
A boy named Adam once fell in love with me
but I never let him touch me after he came.
I still feel this way most days, but
sometimes I wish the inside of my skin
knew what it felt like
to be held.
Apr 11, 2016
Apr 11, 2016 at 8:12 PM UTC