Twelve Poems
Werewolf
I know the smell of lemon on my jaw.
the rushed, raw sound of your palms pressing
my throat against the inside of your forearm.
the citrus spit of your molars
stinging my jaw shut.
you want me to be werewolf,
shedding each layer in an acid flash,
stamping my foot into the dark moss
of your doorstep,
not pausing my fingertips on the doorknob -
putting my whole meaty shoulder into it,
circling for your scent
relentless until our bones
are picked clean.
I last as long as i can.
pivoting my weight on the tender tension
of wire and teeth and risk.
what do you do?
do you risk enough to transform into the
beast hidden in your dresser?
or do you lay down your wrists
into the perfume you choose to wear,
and sink into the bed of it
like coming home each night.
catching pulse.
knowing. one sure thing.
again.
and again.
Sense
do you know the way up
and out?
a twist of vines
crawl into me
billowing mouth.
to teeth.
we never did find the latch.
the key
the looping olive pit stuck in the grain of our fingernails
it was too late,
we were too old,
there was nothing to find but sand.
and more sand.
pervasive as laundry
and just as tricky to get going on
it was this love
huddled in our breast
like a demented salesman
going on and on and on.
and us,
motionless and unable to call up and
clamor away.
don't you want it?
the fire, the clean break,
the pit and pool of each breath
raking against our necks
taking now now now
as simple as a boxcutter
and string
as simple as a lonely
parrot and the sun break
blind
keeping the beak
bent down
covering each inch of cement.
we find ourselves.
whole
sometimes.
without tragedy.
our hands not wringing
raw
sparkling and open.
it's hard to remember those wrists now. because
I want them dumb
these knuckles.
I want to burn myself
into claws,
talons on your chest
I want to enter it
always.
keep the heat
going
6am
in the soft black dawn
a steady creep of cars
pull to the barreled edge
of the intersection
brakes compressing,
tight wires.
I turn on my side
the blinds,
steady dust
pulling
knots
through
our bed,
its calm.
eventually,
everything
trades lisps,
jaws collapse.
your knees
soft, tense
stir three times
rotate,
persist,
sing
never.
never.
leave.
cloister our knuckles
that night we drank 13 beers apiece
and bruised each other’s knuckles
eggplant,
you can’t pretend you don’t know why.
every bone in us
had been bent toward our lips meeting
for three years.
and every night,
I listened to the sound of your wife sleeping
two windows away.
this is the game we played.
weaving bait between our bodies,
strumming into one another’s heat
in a crowded car,
a grocery line,
a show.
that slow sweet movement where our arms
glanced skin
and we would for a moment,
sink into that sway.
and this is what we would do to
withstand the silence -
punch out the air between us
attempt a chance
to play at normalcy.
but that night we played knuckles
until 5am,
hands swollen as large as
grapefruits,
I was the one that called uncle,
let your hands slide back to your sides.
and in that heat
with my wrists bare and throbbing,
I lifted my body toward yours
and met your teeth
as they crashed into mine,
fell into that moment
of blast
I could never put
to rest,
or map back into my body
and
silence.
to meet you there
to seal our space
to lay questions flat and smooth their
jagged lines
into one long
bold
loud
permanent
sentence
Rhode Island
there is one moment
one pulse
when I am sure I will be ok.
it’s
the sound of the
phone clicking
into its
cradle.
each ounce of oxygen
spirals
into my second floor
bedroom
coiling past my ears
and dissipating
against the warm glass of
the nearest window.
a second
where the night doesn’t
bend or choke
on its own echo,
just hangs flat,
motionless,
reflective.
perfect.
Six Days
I countdown and crawl
fist over fist
toward the station entrance.
The 7am train blasts quick steam,
lets off a howl that reverberates the brick walls.
smooth sunlight sits at my hip
my arms slack and hungry.
everyday the wrinkles in my eyes
dive into themselves further,
everyday I sink a neat tread
down the middle of my path.
wait.
the weekends are different.
my breathing gets out of sync.
waking up at 9am
the third exhale
off
August
it was most likely the letter opening.
the slow movement rustling its way down the hallway that pulled you from sleep.
i gently pulled the flap -
and it undulated perfume,
heartbreak, + a slow sigh that unhinged every door in the room
brought all suspended objects to their knees.
Washington
tanqueray and tonic
on the dock
where we dig our
heels into
the uneven slats
I collapse a tongueful
of week-old bruises
against my knuckles
refuse to give in
and tell you the answer
I crowd reason
and silence it
professionally
remember when we broke
our answers into
two
gave each other space
and
motion
rain burns into toes
lifts up a raft of silence
this summer says nothing
this summer says truth
baked into bone
stone forking
ankle
Studio
your mouth
crawls the length of the dusty studio floor.
I’m shaking out the sleeves of a sweater,
attempting to fold along creases
and my veins flood and collapse along the edges
of your collarbones.
of course,
my knees don’t know what to do
but now I’m thigh deep
and your breath is swimming
to me
setting strong tent poles
into my teeth.
if your curves could live
here
keep me company
I would never get anything done.
I would lie awake blinking
at the figure
arresting mine.
Rail
smooth plank of wood on the dining room floor
the nail you’ve held onto is coming loose,
I keep snagging my socks when
I walk to my chair without looking.
I’ve nearly pried you up on those half-runs
to answer the doorbell.
each time
I pretend I knew
you were there all along
that I will get to you someday
and hammer carefully
to make sure
you’ve sunken back into place
smooth you down,
buy polish.
to tell you the truth,
most of the time
it’s not even the doorbell.
it’s more around midnight
going to get a glass of water,
I look down to see my crew socks
unraveled to the toe.
Latch
the potatoes in the lower right drawer
had turned into mold and dust
as you leaned into the sink
I held my words in a rare ‘v’ pattern
cutting the tips of your ears accidentally
but as you were just cutting a pile of onions
you didn’t notice
and simply
turned your hands over in cold water
once, twice, three times
I swallowed and the weight freed an entire block of ice
I had lodged behind my eyes
I bent down to pick up the potatoes
but I did so only peripherally
holding them at arms length
as I dropped them into the garbage
one by one
you reached back into the sink
brought forward one white enamel plate after the other
“how long as it been since he died?” I asked
my ears thundered
you drew yourself inward
turn toward the corner
I never knew him, your uncle
but I was used to fucking up our silences
I turned back to the cupboard
rearranged the tall water glasses
they stuck to the tips of my fingers
squeaked somewhat silently –
my hands could hear them best.
I shuffled their bodies into neat rows
“I’m sorry” I said
and reached to steady my palms on the counter
August
one day i decided to be cruel.
I picked apart the front door lock and traded its pieces
with an old kitchen corkscrew.
as if i needed you to swear you'd leave me once more –
I watched your bags grow.
a tumbling monument of tweed and fire.
+ your last four words burned my wrists.
"i am going home."