I.
she scratches her back,
marking territory on translucent skin
they are of the same opacity -
as if upon meeting they scanned each other’s bones
to ensure strength
one has a way of smiling
where her lips pull against her gums
and the other has the tendency
to flip the pillow to the cold side before sleeping
they are never not entwined
they never had to get used to
two sets of bras in the dryer,
a hairbrush constantly covered with
each other’s blonde hair,
never using the condoms in their jewelry boxes
it was easy
is easy
when one asked the other
for a matching tattoo,
she put her partner’s initials on the soles of her feet
II.
the birthday party was in full swing by mid-afternoon
no one in the party had hair any lighter than charcoal
and the birthday girl was four, wearing only one shoe
all the women were clad in floral bikinis;
the ripples of their stretched skin on full display
in this circle, they honed their cultural energy
with coconut water and bongo drums
the guest of honour was passed out within an hour,
but they had come all this way
and wanted to make the most of it
III.
the night before she had found herself
entwined with a bodybuilder ten years her senior
she turned her hands over and over,
checking for signs that she had changed
but as the dog licked the inside of her legs
she was at peace with the fact that she always
belonged in a stranger’s bed
he said she felt good
and pressed welts passionately onto her ***
he wanted to take her sailing on the lake the following day
but she preferred to sit on a man-made sugared beach alone
Jun 25, 2017
Jun 25, 2017 at 7:15 PM UTC
I.
my roommate is
an extended sigh
she wakes up every morning and
makes French-press coffee,
which is foreign in my household
she has a soft heart,
liked a bruised peach
and when I smoke **** in the evenings
she talks about art house films
over sautéed cucumbers
and I pretend to listen
II.
I read somewhere this morning
that you should replace all your
“I’m sorrys”
with
“thank yous”
like, instead of
“sorry I am such a mess”
it should be
“thank you for loving me unconditionally
thank you for wanting to have my name coat your tongue
thank you for refurbishing my past like an antique dresser”
I haven’t once spoken these words
since being with you
III.
I walked down College without headphones
I could hear my blood’s humming voice
I carried the same three treats I bought with you:
a brownie
a s’mores bar
a Ruffles chip marshmellow square
at Crawford, I could hear you in the box
scratching like a rat
when I got home,
I lit a candle
and ravenously ate you on my bed
Apr 8, 2017
Apr 8, 2017 at 4:00 PM UTC
my atoms
have always loved your atoms.
you caught me off guard
like a subway pulling too
quickly
out of Ossington Station
(I couldn’t ground myself)
you remind me of my last breath:
taut, slight but necessary
stay
with me
I still feel your words
growing up my spine
there are dead roses
covering my sheets from you
and although he picked them up
and wrapped new vines
around my front door
and gifted me jars filled with conversation
the tattooed pilot wings on his chest
are reminiscent of yours flying above me
Feb 16, 2017
Feb 16, 2017 at 5:47 PM UTC
my favourite
part about being drunk is when
I hold the end of a cigarette by the flame
it doesn’t burn my fingers
I am invincible
I love when I’m drunk
and you weave your fingertips through
the holes in my tights
close but not enough
if I’m drunk enough I’ll let you
walk me back to your apartment in Bushwick
the hallways looking
like The Overlook Hotel
while you push me onto your bed and tell me
all you want to do is lay naked next to me
next thing you know I am your outlet
I am a thousand resonating nos
mine is every body you’ve ever wanted
covered with glass
and you wind my hair around your palm
and I am drunk
off the New York skyline
off the back of an Audi
off a taco truck in a bar
that I submit
and I beg you
to fill all my holes
Nov 30, 2016
Nov 30, 2016 at 1:24 PM UTC
king of the sea,
with a rigorous exoskeleton peeling away
moulting causes such distress,
exposed to the thrashing undertow of the sea
and enemies
who protects you?
a callow arthropod poised on fractured shells
it isn’t your father,
balancing a bottle of brandy between his lips
or your confidant,
skidding his tires across your mind
a starfish tried,
she threw her arms round your shell
as you added new muscles underneath
she stuck her tube feet in her claws
as you brittled her skin
she said I love you
and you retreated
when you are 70
and clamouring the floor
put your arms behind your back to beckon her to you
try –
she is the sea and no one owns her.
Oct 16, 2016
Oct 16, 2016 at 3:38 PM UTC
it takes 8 hours and 1 minute to get to Gansevoort Street
they say to truly love someone
you must know them through all four seasons
barricaded branches prevented you from coming February 6th
black leather interior seemed like the perfect place
to evaporate
like a cigarette outside Baby Huey
punch holes in your arm like a belt
so a finger can’t trace it
without being caught
hornets under Dixie cups
razored wings carve out this body
phantom knee, nerve extension
push your thumb into its stump
regret pushing the willow
walking the length of dead grass to a childhood hub
a reminder of which sits on your bedside
as an 8-year-old pilot
spearheading a UAV to TOR
Dundas Square sees you in an amber light.
Sep 23, 2016
Sep 23, 2016 at 3:09 PM UTC
I always feared when I was young
that my blue veins would bulge out of my hands
like yours
they are now deft with our flesh
you prop us up,
tchotchkes on a shelf
talk of your impending spring funeral,
peonies and tulips
take off
***** donor” on your health card
because they’ve already been given to us
at seven in North York you
danced to Elton John by the front window,
ducking at the sight of headlights
I can avoid you like
rush hour traffic if it would save you
the trouble
Sep 23, 2016
Sep 23, 2016 at 3:05 PM UTC
how often I wish for 91 Brunswick Ave
compressed together in a claw foot,
your flesh my home
cakes baked in too shallow pans
I forget what song was playing when
you told me you loved me.
how often I wish for the freeway between
Cocoa Beach and Orlando,
a friendly chaperone asleep in the back
hands knotted thinking:
“this is ours”
how often I think of August bonfires
the terror of an international move
“you would be a day ahead of me for ten weeks”
I felt stronger than the 100-year-old ruins we were
standing in
how often I wish for The Standards,
High Line and East Village,
bacon cocktails and antiquated photobooths and
windswept harbour panoramas
my insubstantial voice begging
“don’t turn the red light off,
I need you to see where my bones shattered
and pierced my skin”
Sep 12, 2016
Sep 12, 2016 at 12:44 PM UTC
a folding table bearing Super-8’s
sits outside as we leave lunch
pressing viewfinder to your algaeic eye,
you aim it at the sky,
at the soles of your feet,
at the dishevelled seller
but never
at
me.
Aug 22, 2016
Aug 22, 2016 at 11:31 PM UTC
I saw two grown men cry this week.
heaving their bodies, weighted with wails
my father with guilt burrowed in his gut
live streams his tears asking anyone for
answers to fix his sick son
my lover wishing to be shattered into dust,
logging each passing thought in emails
parceled with regret
I carry them;
I bundle and swaddle and embrace
I light three matches for each of us,
the flame kissing my index finger
we are one
in the ember I hear
we have taken only one family vacation
I wanted to cut off my finger and send it to you
you promised to protect me
my father is martyred
my love is sleepless
these are my men
and although this week I have had
black thread weaved underneath my skin
and I have carved out my name in my stomach
with worry
and I have been swallowed whole by the memory of
my favourite small town in Long Island
he is black
he is in a drought
he is marred too
Aug 20, 2016
Aug 20, 2016 at 7:27 PM UTC