Hair-Dye Pastoral
“I got a sickness,
sweet as a love-note”
-Steve Albini
These vines slimify ripe
skin—come, brush through spindle-
thick veins of hair that sweep
your flushed forehead. Mine: rusted...
On Election Night, I Reach for My Partner’s Hand
in bed. Try to sleepby concentrating
on the pulsethat shudders
through the thick, bluerivers along his arms. I...
Body
dog-eared, tracks
like spinal cords after the rains come
without any stillness, shards
of the downed Juniper like baby teeth
half-buried. Love
is not a living creature. Husk
of the...
Abecedarian: Whatever Grows
Aunt B. lives, after her death, in our wedding photos:bespectacled, cigarette hanging from her lips, beercup in one hand, phone in the...
Perfect Kiss
The first insults those that follow—
a curiosity, a carnival ride at dusk.
Second or hundred-&-third
recalls the first, measured &
found lesser—small rite
in tribute to inaugural...
The Other Affair
Not even the wind creates love songs equally,
For a passerby, lifting a stubborn edge of joy
From this ruddy earth with frail hands,
gathering...
We Have Gotten So Good At Dying
A sad memento is sad so long
as it’s
the officiant of girlhood—the body its own
disengaged worship. How to chronicle...
Winters—
we like our bodies naked blanketed like letters in an envelopemoving against each-other as though the only warmth in this worldcould come from touch as though the only...
