Kendra posted a
faded picture of
you with the blurred
swatch of evergreen
at your shoulders,
I'm a universe and
a half, more pigmented
than I could ever be
at your side, at that
window, would we
have lasted? It's not
for me to tell.


Happy Birthday, Chris.

do you dream
about me-
no lipstick left
and wild hair?
i hope i am
swallowed by
golden light in
all of them,
that you are only
able to see me in
the wilderness,
that you wake up
with a pain in the
middle of your
sternum where i
used to run my
fingers while we
watched movies or
listened to the rain
under your covers.

listen,
i avoid your shows
and your friends
and your mom (and
god i loved your
mom more than i
loved you, i think)
and i have even
stopped going to
target in case you
might be working.
i'm so tired of
going out of my
way to be normal.

i put traffic
cones around
my body, pull
my own rug
out from
                                         under
me,
ten pounds
like an anvil
on a string,
153.43

tell me about the last
time he ate raspberries
off your fingertips, the
last time he stuck his
hands beneath your
bra just to keep warm
the last time he made
you apple cider in the
**** summer heat,
but it's fall and you
miss his sweat, his
bad breath, his
distaste for
sweet things
that you a l w a y s
forgot, and the kiwi
body wash that sat in
his shower, you've been
saying Jesus Christ lately
and you want to stop, but then
again, you still want to be the kind
of girl he might come back to.

oh but we are all
divine in that we
have souls, the
way that fills
my mouth
is stupendous
they say that
your fingertips
can feel nano-scale
wrinkles on a smooth
surface, a new level of
sensitivity not previously
recorded and I think that is



beautiful.

see,

when I listen
to the smiths I
see you instead
of Morrissey and
you are all golden
apple glow with a
crisp blue profile
a stark outline
against the
saturated
red fade
the mic
cupped in
between those
grand fingers
like a steel face.
how silly to
know you
never sang.

i have forgotten
that i am all sharp
edges with blunt
letters, that these
arrows are shot
with arcs but
s
t
i
c
k
in the ground,
sometimes I fancy
myself honey but
I am all vinegar
all salt, no soothe.