As I light up
This last blonde cigarette,
I think of music,
Of boats sailing through smoke,
Smog.
Stars that fall in the ocean,
Cosmonauts drifting through space,
Their ship destroyed
Like a mother who has given birth.
Memories of photographs.
I think of her
As usual.

I want to be
buried deep
in snow;

this is a blessing,
a simple message,
of hope.

White winter devils,
frost-bitten petals,
a note;

felt calm and careful,
stood on the bar stool,
the rope

fell from the rafters,
last call for laughter,
I choke.

If Pluto’s a planet,
or some sort of moon,
or even a comet; it doesn’t much matter—
not for my purpose—
I feel I should live there.
Just pack up my suitcase,
and move to that snowball that’s
orbiting something,
or just flying solo.

Down here on Earth,
the sun is too warm, and
the light is imposing;
whatever’s concealed is
revealed in the morning,
and I’m left to relive my
memories over.

But Pluto is darker
for most of the day;
the nights will last longer
as life hibernates;
and I can be hidden beneath miles of snow—

Where I’ll be
           forgotten,
                    as I drift
                          
                                ­ alone.

My grandmother taught me
how to rinse period blood
out of my *******
taught me how to sweep
the veranda with my clothes
sticking to my skin

My grandmother taught me
how to hang up soap-water-soaked
house dresses, frocks, slips, and bras
on a clothes line and take them all down
before the sky turns too gray with almost-rain

My grandfather taught me how to recite
the times table as I read from a small school book
my writing is small and quiet and does not yet
demand to be read or known

My grandfather taught me that disobedience
means a stern brown eye, a grim mouth,
a sharp snapping crack of leather belt

My father taught me that not all men
are men, that some men are boys
and they will leave their daughters
waiting, legs folded underneath them,
toes curled as they watch for their father's
car that never drives down the quiet road

My father taught me that some men,
some boys will leave and they will close
your front door, leave your third text
unanswered on your phone, and you
will taste their lies on your tongue

My mother taught me to be loud
assertive, that every word holds heavy
resonant power and can be a piercing bullet

My mother taught me how to bathe in water,
burn papers scrawled with ex lovers' names
rinse my mouth with salt and water
flick my clean tongue over white teeth
how to write love into my palms
ritualistically pass it over my body