The cedar chips were being spread
in Oregon City when you went to Grandpa’s.
The coffee shop is open, gravel on the drive,
sheets speckled with lobsters carry you
in sleeptime while in Boston mine is feverish
without your mouth, reaching out.
I dream of abortion at a waxing studio,
diving into bowls of cereal, checking
every room--
I look in closets.

You’re not one for dreams-- you salt notebooks
with navy marks, dripping pen onto pillows,
the world a sweet heuristic I cannot know.
You make me live quiet. I stop
screaming and pulling bird feathers. I gather
tea cups, pull chest hair, carve a warm nest
from soap suds and candy.

My poetry was drawn from angst,
from drunken dream light, eggs frying
on hot pavement, a galloping horse. Now,

I want  
a pen carving
patterns of earth into our skin.
I want kisses and puppies, shrimp cocktail,
birthdays and bathrobes, a walk
in the snow.