I never grew tall enough to
confidently grasp the top shelf
cereal box on the first try.
Fumbling, I’d finger its corners—
swiping mercilessly at its edges
until I could feel it fill
the curves of my desperate palm.
It gives in. Gravity assists.
Heels hit the floor.
I won again.
Back then, Persistence was my
favorite professor who always
curved the final.

I never grew mindful enough to
confidently grasp when
I should end the chase.
Writhing, I want and want—
curating the parts of myself
I think he’d like the most, but
he never turns on the light.
I collect dust. The hour hand assists.
Heels hit the floor.
I have this lesson on repeat,
and the stop button is broken.
These days, Hope has become my
favorite form of punishment
who expertly disguises herself
as wisdom.

Coins clink and that quickly
her mindless heart bats between
bright colors and moving lights—
pinging with bonus points
for kindness and understanding;
slingshots for extra lives
each time she feels something
and means it.

He’s not used to having a
playfield quite like this.
She makes this exciting;
a fifty-cent thrill that
he can afford to entertain
as long as he cares to.

/Insert./Launch./Flip./
Under glass, she’s untouchable—
unstoppable—
a stainless force that earns him
the high score he’s always
dreamed of having.
His string of numbers
lit in the back of.
He’s done it; he’s done.

She watches his hands drop
from the sides.
Music stops.
Bulbs dim.
Glass goes dark.
She falls again—
this time
with nothing to
catch her.

She waits; she hates
begging for the sound
of that coin to drop
one more time.

I told you from the start
I disappear when it gets cold
But you found a way to keep me here
With a body to hold

And I think of you
When I am drunk in the road in front of your old house
I miss what you do to me
When I needed you and blacked out

I miss you darling
Yeah I guess I'll say it
I know I'm a fool

It's as if you are on fire from
Within
Yet still the moon lives
In the
Lining of your skin

Head spinning
Ears ringing
Skin tingling
You sleeping
Me existing

Another stolen night
Another hotel room fight
Another hotel room ****
Another run of bad luck
Another bottle of scotch

I watch your torso fall and rise
Remembering the lust in your eyes
Listening whilst you told me lies
You “Love me” what a clichéd surprise
Yet, still I cannot say to you “goodbye”.

I laid my mattress in
the living-room. And camped out
every day with the shades pulled
down to block out the light

from outside. I ate and ate until
my weight was one-hundred and
seventy-five. I had just miscarried my
baby girl. Her name would have been

Sarah if she came into this world. But
she never made it to her May birthday –
She was taken in a very sober October
when the colors of the leaves shined against

my pale face and barren waist. We died
the same way, taken before we could
consummate, like I did with Jim. And after we had
our fling he died too. Then I turned full-on to

the bottle. My son never made it home
from the hospital. It was too much to bear on anyone –
and this old woman is no longer young. But still
depressed, spending her time in a cold basement

video-taping ******* – *******, ***
and ***** for money. Her poems are just as her
baby girl, son and Jim –
all brain dead. No light has been shed on a one –
if it doesn’t involve a **** or tongue

Young, fresh, unsuspecting—
I was her once.
Instead, now I am the subject
of her pining curiosity.
“When will you get married?”
I empathize and recognize
that my 30 to her 16 seems to be
soft, ripened fruit
on the verge of a good, wasteful spoil.
The smile that cracks on my lips
begs to grow into laughter,
and I resist.
I was her once.
I still catch flecks of her
in the corners of my eyes whenever
I see love take one of its many shapes.
My answer.
“Single admission still gets you
into the same movie, kid.”
Looking in the rear view mirror,
I catch that fleck and keep quiet.

Your move, universe.

The car’s not on but
your seatbelt is.
Going zero miles per hour,
you are guaranteed to hit
nothing.
You are guaranteed to see
nothing.
You are guaranteed to go
nowhere.
You’re in a safe place— at home,
without a single smudge on the exterior,
without a single story to tell,
without a single soul
waiting to hear what’s next.
Don’t worry.
I’ll wave as I drive by,
going 80 down some coastal highway,
filling up pages with every breath I take.