do you need clothes for this fine occasion or is it just like everything else— optional, really do you need a map for this rancid place, an oar for this river, or a coin for your good eye have you made your offer yet, transubstantiated, dipped your fingers knuckle-deep to test the waters and the wounds how many marks are enough how red the eyes how solemn the expression are you of the earth or of the flesh, a cunning thing with darkened feet and hands do you weep over the too-dark sky no noise pollution tonight as your colors run are you too busy celebrating to realize the consequences what comes next this cage is big enough for two are you leaning on an old wound, relying too heavily on a crutch that you’ve outgrown who will you cut from your good graces what neck deserves a red ribbon have you thought of what comes next a light in the darkness or a great silence: the hibernation of civilization

Tie your hair at the nape of your neck and suddenly you’re a lion in need of taming: all whips and teeth and fancy hoops to jump through (inhumane, really, but you were always good at performing tricks for enthralled audiences looking to be entertained: a wink here, a grin there, a witticism cleverly placed) And you’ve never really known anything outside of this gilded cage, comfy and starving for attention and I could just press myself against your ribs, generalize your beats per minute, take a bow and lead you out into the sequined moment to a raucous din of applause and whistles, roses thrown It’s all in my head, really, because there’s no one ever there—ever watching our conversation, our transfiguration into something other than ourselves on the backslide of an argument And I realize I’m no good at taming as I watch you cock your head and stalk out of the room, dragging some sliver of me through the doorway on your way out And the dishes rattle along to the furious beat of the

And if I could, I’d bottle you up, an ornamental fish on display for all to see I’d freeze you in place, turn you into a diorama of the best parts of life: past, present, future painted against a blue splash of something I’d slip between laser sphynxes focused on the lemon wedge of sunlight distilled into that holy cup I’d sigh at that sliver of a moon dangling on the sweet edge of night, curl around some lovely maypole with eyes fixed on a distant shadow Up the cosmic pillars go with infinity on the brain

thought slipping into tunnel vision--suddenly! moonlight overhead

It’s only fitting that I bleed on the sleepy heels of a void moon saying goodbye to my next of kin yet to take root “My line ends with me.” That’s what all the cool kids say and it’s bitter on my tongue to give praise to the reality of the situation with ginger candies and herbal teas laden with affirmations The universe is only so beautiful in the eye of the beholden And take a seat, won’t you? I’ve cleared a space in the garden because the table ain’t set We can take turns digging up buried things, like compliments and little skeletons of things to come Get your hands dirty, nail-deep in mine for the moment at least

well, here’s a cutting board and my favorite paring knife the unsuspecting would call us full tang—a life full of lemons a patio orchard of citrus twisting contained in beautiful shapes, you wouldn’t know better without the busiest bees no one’s got a graft of this situation heart onto heart and full sun quickly setting, settling down to bed I go and in the morning I’ll rise to the sway of the breeze from some open window and I’ll be fine even after you’ve gone wipe my dirty hands on an old tea towel or my favorite apron build mint juleps from the ground up salt the earth in my spare time

Hold your tongue until the moment is right Isn’t that what you said Do you remember The promise we made All those years ago I remember And I shouldn’t look back, but I do Always at an alarming rate And who am I now Taking spiritual lessons from ghost bears Keys to your lessons Everything’s backwards No secrets here Planting seeds in imaginary gardens For things that won’t come to fruition You’re in perpetual motion And I should accept change Like the taste of ash on my tongue I should, but… I’m trapped at the beginning Of my own path And I’m afraid to leave you behind You’re the only thing I have left Slipping through my fingers What will I have left Stagnant waters, unfinished thoughts, a heap of— I’m falling apart in the night, Waiting for sudden changes I’m stronger than I think I think I don’t love you anymore, Not like I did, at least Because you haven’t loved me the same way These are things that hurt, but it’s true And I cannot keep— Do you know why I keep ornamental

that was the poem by me of course, obviously, it was— a summer poem, an evening poem, a Monday poem they’re closed from understanding—when I want like I always bury the intent I appreciate endings, the subtlety of placement, but some of the words you wrote and I erased them and they became mine (no pretty language here) I don’t need to consider the thoughts in your head, rolling about like marbles through paint ignore everything if you know what’s best it’s dead and gone, flatlining on the page don’t think about what could have been, wandering thoughts, deadened conversations, sweet pleasantries like, “it’s hot today. what would you be doing if you weren’t—” or, “does this really mean what I think it’s implying because I've got time on my hands and I’m searching for one last shred of hope?” sure, maybe it means what you think, but— take a breath, take another look, take a break— but you’re looking too deeply into it maybe I'm in love with the intent with words strung into flower

my imagination is speckled with the husks of imaginary best friends dancing in the twilight cicadas and summer storms cricket songs by night and I’ve got an itch for puddle jumping fold my best Sunday socks over and start again with daydreams splashed up past my knees