in the empty hallway where
the wood falls in line with my
heels and the sunbeams are warm
across the grain, full-steam into
my toes, that sink beneath the
floorboards and root into
the foundation where
plant muck takes
residence between
my veins, it's chilly
in this house but
most of me is still on
top and the dust bends
lights off the windows
is stained on the wall
and somewhere from
the kitchen the smell
of cider wraps around
my calves.

my dad took to the yard
with a vengeance, tearing
into the bramble, imbued
with a great autumn anger
schhhtt, schhhhtt, schhting
across the sidewalk in a fury
not unlike Samuel hacking
Agag to pieces in the 6 pm
blush, still 70 out, too warm
for fall, I watched with a
heaviness, the pungent
smell of unearthed pine
and wet leaves leaving
a starchiness to the
air as he continued
to gather the brush in
bags, with my thoughts,
with my thoughts,
with my thoughts.

I've always been
afraid to say I'm
not in love as if
without it I am less
as if I am missing
something crucial
and I have often
been weary of
saying it aloud
in hopes that
you might
come back
but we aren't
ever going to
be together,
are we, Chris?
that is why



I don't love you anymore.

in Nordstroms at the Cherry Creek Mall
in Denver, I tried on a gold dress that didn't
fit around my hips (but not many things do,
including your arms or your eyes or your
honesty) and the dressing room attendant
didn't bother to knock before unlocking the
door to tell me that this particular room
wasn't for me, and her eyes, particularly
her boho hat, made me feel like slime,
like a wet body bag, like a sweaty
creature that crawled out from
beneath the hot stones in canon
city and I eagerly shuffled out of
the hall with the gold dress that didn't
fit around my hips (because nothing does)
and the for the rest of the day I saw myself
fitting my skin over inanimate objects and wishing
I could be beautiful.