at 8:20 am, i get into the shower
and remember the last time you were in it
almond milk, pine sap, sputtering hot and weeping
we didn’t dream that night and
after you left i lay on the kitchen floor,
repeating myself.
during the day i sell the same wine over and over:
tobacco leaf, dry leaves, black cherry
there is one here that is a kiss, a second
i can’t describe wine as a cul-de-sac
and your button up, so i say “strawberry.”
i flew to new york and
the weather felt like my blood,
sticking to your neck
we spent the weekend in the country
entangled, frightened, drinking cider
spilling it out through our sharpening teeth:
dogs barking at a few falling leaves.
when i came home i scratched off my skin- i turn cold daily.
there’s not much to eat and
you would tell me that
there isn’t enough cheese in my fridge,
and it’s the wrong kind,
and why are you looking at me like that?
i come to you each night in your little plastic bed
breathing small seeds
pocketing light.
(you don’t know. you are asleep)
how do you do it, keeping so warm?
dear, i can’t stop drawing the moon
because i keep hoping i’ll see you in it.

you have to face it:
you are getting tired of your boyfriend
especially when he sings along to the radio
your smile is cut open,
you are daydreaming through the midwest
your friend looking a little too hard
you touch your boyfriend’s jeans
just slightly.

her mouth is cut open,
and you can feel her red hair
spreading through you like a fever
you were always tired of her boyfriend
and you are already tired of los angeles
and you are only in texas.

you’ve been here for three days
and the earth shakes with *******
and gold bikinis. you sip a harvey wallbanger
and watch people **** in the fountain
and you resent your boyfriend
you cross your legs. you study the greek myths,
holding a cigarette.

her name is roxanne
and her mouth is a vase
of red flowers standing in the kitchen
of your connecticut home
when you are thirteen and
everyone is still alive
she is wearing black
and so are you.

you’ve never been ****** before.
the sun pushes through swelling flowers
towards the bar. you can’t stop blinking
when he leans into you, you giggle
like a mouse in a minidress
and uncross your legs, slowly
like you learned about in the magazines.

you’re wondering how much coke
one person can do in one night
(a lot)
but it’s not you, and the red fills the room
and you have benzodiazepine in your pocket
and you think about the word “calamity”
calm, or not?
what is the music industry?
you have started to sleep face down
and you keep the flowers close at night
and in the morning.

you’ve been kissing the sun
with your mouth open
so your boyfriend does a stage dive on national television
from 30 ft up
and the red fills the room.

when you are invited to his house
you want to say no
but instead you dress in silks
and take peyote, or LSD
roxanne drifts, laureled, around the ceilings
the host is drooling mad words
all over the candles. they’re not going out
and neither are you.

do you deserve half a million dollars,
or are you just telling yourself that?

roxanne doesn’t feel the gun in her mouth
until it’s going off
and she can see you outside on the beach
building your dream house out of sand-
but only for a second.

obviously, you didn’t think
you’d ever love your boyfriend again
but he relearned to walk
and you think it’s admirable
and strong, and brave
you’re the only one that los angeles didn’t swallow

by this time, the sun is going out
the blood around her mouth like a vase
of flowers on the kitchen table
give it a minute, you’ll be gone too.

sneaking around the front door,
i’ve become in my loneliness one of those spiders
that waits underground. are you, too, underground?
you spend time hidden, you say
“i am under the blankets.”
in my backpack are seven small seeds
that i break with my palms
and take with water
(this is a slow-growing flower)
in my dream i hear
jamas, jamas
the flower comes out of my mouth:
i am awake
elliot brings me my fur coat
and in the pocket there’s a letter
and i eat it
he dejado de ser tuyo
i don’t think i will ever
again walk on a railroad,
says the flower
i think i am poison
where is your breathing? it’s going out the window
to the foxes, down to the baseball field,
rolling like a sweet apple
pulling a petal out of my throat
like a string
she sits in the chair, smoking
have you ever been a carbon steel knife?
daydreaming in the midwest, waking to think
of being carbon steel knives
that dreamt of new edges.

on a rainy day your body spread over a picnic table
like an egg yolk, and you swallowed the word profound
again and again.
someone from your past
has gone beneath the ocean, leafless
and you can hear the wailing from here to the saginaw
people begin to breathe blood: they’re choking up, soughing
“be easy buddy” and
“he wanted a black eye for prom so i punched him in the face”
flowers arrived at the door, a ghost, an ear of corn
while everything yearned tall: frames, shadows,
in st. louis you circle a bit of claret earth
spotting your sister’s face in the mirror, leaving linseed and shreds
i could never ask how you are.
the wail is a train whistle, i hear it pauses
for no softness of flesh, these midwestern daughters
she loved all living things.
imagine carefully painting a boat
a pencil in your teeth,
cutting through earth, the nantucket sound
you’re going to take your boat beyond
this firmament, you know, we’re all
waiting through this salty crush
sinking below a winter current
this is all yours now:
mainsail, rudder, hard-a-lee
you darling masters of the sea.

for PW and LE. goodnight.

the moment before
hearing myself say things
for the best, this is for
us to be ok, friends
different places
do you have someone
do you have rachel.
i spent my break where your ribbons used to hang
your body leaving a soft leather imprint
“i made a mistake”
my mother gives me xanax
we watch shark television
and wolves rip through a bison
and i take a shower,
slicing open my belly under the hot water
and no one tells me not to.
(on loop: you in the water,
meowing “too hot”
you straighten above me,
and i wash your hair more lovingly
and you squint like a child against the lather,
and squirm)
i drive around for hours
and there isn’t anywhere you have not touched
with your eyes, those lunar orbs
circling me as i sleep
i light a cigarette with a cigarette
i don’t want to leave my car
my roommate is here with her ****** girlfriend
making unicorn cookies
and listening to sonic youth
when they stand pressed together,
i leave the room, burning my hands on the mason jar
and i wash your hair more lovingly
and you squint like a child against the lather,
and squirm
this pale landscape is streaked with blood
if i cut open my stomach
did i think you’d spill out
i did, i would.
and your hair is soaking wet
and you bow for the towel
and suddenly i am nothing.