...was it awkward
to be the first?
did you slide under
the sheets as the sun
shoved its way
into the room?
when God found you
asleep in the morning,
you never expected
such vibrato--
oh, child, your heart
is whirring like a jet engine.
calm yourself.
you will remember him
like a satellite, rattling
around your ribs.
let’s kick things off
with a vigil--
preferably blue
and billowing.
then we’ll blow out
all of these candles
and let the smoke
wind around these
skinny wrists.
my neck gives birth
to so many stars.
this ribcage is a weapon
against getting closer to you
and I’d like to let my heart out.
once I accepted God
as the one and only
light of my life,
my body went numb.
no more kisses
under my earlobes,
no more hands clutching
at the back of a knee.
I wheeled my heart
to the edge and let go.
I stand here panting,
sweating, wondering
how I will function without
the heat of my universe.
the boundaries of this apartment
are as soft as red yarn.
with all those gaps in your teeth,
I’d never call you the model of chivalry.
the water on the stove hisses for my attention,
like a cat in a box under our bed.
you sleep right through. my hands ache
until I get up. I stop a fire from happening.
I think about blooming
and how I’m going to
nip this in the bud.
I think about all these
little bruises and how
I must have gotten them.
I think about small towns
and how I’m not ashamed
to be from one.
I think about your fingers
clutching that lantern. Please
lead me safely into the night.
There is a smattering
of red stars on my right hip.
I think I felt your hand there.
in this heat, I feel as if
I should be spooning myself
back into my sweltering frame.
there are two kinds
of grace in this world
and the better of the two
is pooling under my eyes,
strolling down past the corners
of my lips, taut like a ribbon.
I open my mouth and glisten.
I’m attempting to drink
more than my share
of the oceans.
they told me to lean
into the arms
of all those angels
they’ll catch you, cradle you,
teach you how to sleep.
I left the dark womb first.
with a flashlight in hand,
they shoved me out,
asked me to woo
all those wide eyes.
I’m not the messiah,
but I’m here to gauge
if you’re ready for one.
if we both fall asleep
on the train, it will rumble
right on past your house
past all those bars
across the windows
where the mosquitos
and moths flutter right on in.
this light of this subway car
is not bright enough
to keep me fully awake,
but it is bright enough
to keep me from
showing you my lower back
in front of all these strangers.
the man across from us
has planted violets under his seat.
I want to stay here long enough
to see them bloom.
I owe a thank you
to the man who coined
the word for what I feel
these days,
even if my definition
is slightly skewed & is even
sweatier than I imagined.
I don’t sleep, even with
all these fans pointed
at my body to cool me down.
I just want it to storm
for a few minutes
while I get my bearings.
I keep waking up
and wondering where
you are.
I don’t remember
my dreams.
I have come to terms
with fire--
with the way it’s always
licking the back
of my mother’s hand
like a cat, like something
to take home with you.
she always smells
destruction in the air.
I even mistake
my nosebleeds
for the smell
of this building
crumbling under flames.
in my life,
there will always be
something smoldering.
I’ve betrayed this city
that hums in my bones.
The train rumbles by
like a silver stream
of horses on the prairie.
I roll over in my half-sleep
and there you are, your arms
glowing with the heat
of all those spider bites.
my mouth is a wide open
moon. I roll you up like a prayer
and keep you under my tongue.
he told me to empty myself
completely and sit waiting.
my coffee ripples
from the center outward.
he told me that I should desire
to be swallowed up,
to retreat into my own heart.
the angels circle my bed
with their wings that rustle
like sheets and they tell me
that I too am a saint.
I whisper back:
he is the greatest hallucination.
I take flight
across this wide geography,
keep an olive branch
in the gaps of my teeth,
and wait for the storm
to break.
I am not scared of this flood.
chairs float around my room
and I wish I could be
so buoyant.
this world exists as two hearts
cooked quietly until they are just
over-white.
their suns are clouded over, while
yellow pools sit patiently waiting
to break open.
they whisper to me in my sleep.
get married. take a ring and let it
carry you away.
this feels like a fable,
but has too many dark corners
and doors with no knobs to turn,
no way out.
take that slender hand
and pull. the girl comes
tumbling back into the fold.
her lips are lacework.
through the arches of this
great bridge, she returns
from that sprawling borough.
stand at the tip of this island
and welcome her home.
her eyes unravel at the seams.
they should have known
she wouldn’t last.
she emerged at birth with
blue lungs full of silver pins.
there was nothing to do
but send her out to the field
with God and a candle and see
how long it would take
to set this horizon on fire.
she has no future, no past
to paste into books,
to remember through song,
or mother’s bread,
or the ways the pleats
in her skirt hid all those
bruises on her knees.
a forest of wolves welcomed
her cloud down to the wheat.
they bit into the softest thing
they could find.
there is a small voice
that seeps out from between
the sheet and the mattress
a wild call into the dark,
a request for much more light
than I can possibly give.
it tells me that there is a path
straight across this wheezing city
that leads to you.
there is something like Olympus
behind your teeth, in the darkness
that feels like home.
you spit out tonight
like a pit, strings of fruit
stuck in all the tight places
of your mouth.
dear saint anthony,
I think I may have asked you
in drowsiness, in mid-sleep
to help me find a way to save the cat
from crying from beneath my fire escape.
his mouth is pink
and all the blue birds fly out
and he is left empty.
I’d like someone to wear
matching square dance outfits with,
but that’s only if you have
a spare second or two.
I may have also asked
for a cup of near-dead stars,
a tongue that identifies everything
as sweet, and a pair of hands
full of electricity.
I’d like to make some
lightning happen.
I may have misplaced
all these things
a long time ago.
I may have never owned them.
there’s only a humming
behind the velvet curtains
where her virginal heart
used to be.
I opened the curtains,
expected to find part of her there.
beating.
the brightest red.
this feels like the summer
I ate nothing but oatmeal.
all that warmth in the sun
made me feel too full.
I took up sewing to replace
this black hole behind the curtains.
a felt heart unravels at the seams.
I never promised I was good
at making anything real again.
