Politely, the drunken gentleman
loosened the knots of my dress.
His fingers were spiders and
everywhere they bit, I burned.

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.

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.

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.

i felt you
leave your
chair
and sit close.
to her.

(we dissected hearts
in class
today.)

i wanted to touch you--
but not just your hand.

and not just touch.

like spiders, we wrestled
into your wide white mattress.
your legs, all eight of them,
entangled in all eight of mine.

Turn the lights off. Go to bed. In the morning
notice how the clouds have moved.
Even the lawn is overgrown.
A bird hops outside your
window. You don’t
have to
stay.

He emptied the glass
and ran back into the kitchen for more,
but he couldn’t save her.

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

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.

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

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

before you left
you asked me
to go but
not with you

somewhere
farther