I Can't Remember What You Used to Cook AnymoreSummer ended with a phone callMore Like This
“You need to come to the hospital”
“Is it bad?”
“Yes, it’s bad”
The storm had passed, it was quiet now
But the world had shifted, warped
Everything was out of place
Unable to keep my footing
I fell into the darkness
every chance i didn't take IIYou tell him about your cancer on a Sunday,More Like This
in the shower of all places, in between brunch plans
and speculations about whether or not the weather
will ever get any colder - hasn't it been the strangest November?
Just the strangest.
You casually mention that somewhere
deep in the secret space between your hips
your own cells are proliferating uncontrollably,
whispering treason and passing down forgeries,
teaching each other the steps of mitosis with alarming intent.
You don't miss a beat as you drop survival percentages
mixed in with tomorrow's rain forecast
and predictions about the game later that afternoon -
easy as breathing, even as counterfeit armies
shred through the soft tissue just below
his favorite place on your spine.
And as you stand there
calmly making conversation
and sharing the last of the soap,
he watches the water
run quiet rivers
through your hair.
Hunting CoyotesHunting CoyotesMore Like This
Footfall of a frost-faced hunter
heavy with a winter kind of hope;
one paw raised above the stream.
You thought I would shatter with the sharp bark
of the gun, but moonlight still sparkles
in a spray of wet pearls along my sides.
I am cold teeth, I am the blood-stopping stare.
.such treason, this leavingMore Like This
of words in vagrant hours.
i was to keep them
for my own: forever poems,
a little book
to speak, at last,
of dreamed things.
revenanceyou are become a memory, loved to lifeMore Like This
often: a gentle, desperate conjuring
when the hours are small
and the only light left in the world is long gone
past glass and gauze curtain, and
there is tea brewed dark,
blooming milk, sugared
afterthere is rain on the mountain, and my heartMore Like This
is the dark of a bruise. home is
lost, love: no road you know
will take you there.
i.(we have beenMore Like This
annus mirabilis; my orphaning winter, dusk in the garden
of gone things. under lemon tree, baby
-lon, you were
ragged and a man and luminous. blue ruin
of a myth in the quiet.
under lintel i
bore witness, but halflight made half-truths
of bruises up your throat
lest i know them for the violence
of quondam gods
the scent of you feigned skin and salt, and
you asked water
to drink. thirst of a river
in the dry season,
voice like smokethreads and shards
of white honey.
but there were
mothwings on my threshold, embered
under broken light. there was
columbine down the stairsteps, oleander up the walk.
there was night, falling
gentle and unlovely, there
at the edge of the world --
and palm to sky, you unfurled
all the wandered stars of beggars and kings, the bray and bellsound
of their truths. spinning chaos, blown high
to shine the dark.
water, to drink.
the old tongue swelled sudden
in the small of my mouth, and spoke
to bid you
tuesday nightsthe full moon aches.More Like This
tuesday nights are always full of statues.
i wonder what it is to be dead. do you remember
the mother? the comedown from the other, write
as an animal, as a breathing piece of fabric--
the fabric felt in the lines.
you are the main event. hold still.
disengage. you are no mercury flower.
imagine imagine imagine. the airplane
coating of skin to bone. all flesh is concentrated
on your ankles.
so much has happened and will happen
before we can respond to this as an end. epicenter.
the spider-work of lines.
the gas station attendant wondering
if he did the right thing.
the sky holding its breath, beware, beware.
there are no other answers.
there is never anything but light,
and light on light never told us anything about what
we needed to know or be or wear or be wary of.
catch the clouds in your hands.
call me miracle, though i am not
a thing of wonder, i am still
i am still a being made of sticks.
watch me fall apart.
exhaustion makes the most beautiful s
unarticulatedtonight I ask myself:More Like This
where are you going with all these names
in your pockets? syllables that taste
unauthentic in the desperate American
repression is a series of images
earthbound angels breathing
flame, starving hands speaking
in tongues, glazed eyes
asking are you fucking okay
pale skin becoming moonlight,
reflecting and refracting and
the quiet understatement
sunshine shakingmorse code upon collarbones andMore Like This
sun-bleached smiles. she
wasn't ready. she wasn't ready.
he had open arms like
the song about the london bridge;
chlorine baptized him a new
man. innocent, innocent,
what did you see
when you kissed her? the
pearls upon the waves, the
silence upon the shore. was it
quiet enough to hear
the break? thunderous blue, the
chasms of her eyes.
present, in the body
that doesn't fit, I watched
you murder the sky. I wasn't ready