A day will come / in which you will / ask me why I love you. / I will answer / with the only image of you I know
You resist. / I hear it still / your heart / sobbing down / muted streets / in search of / an escape route.
imagine me / as a landscape / without flight / i’d be drinking my own koolaid
Through bamboo slats, the sun / bakes stripes on concrete. Next door / fruit bats sleep uneasily in the eaves.
Loneliness lies screaming in his mother’s arms and / this is Łódź in the morning. / The city yawns and cracks her jaw
Like a broken cartoon, / luscious bones the muscle queen / and the factory of my eyes / makes a gladness.
the birds snort plastic instead of coke / and collapse on the beach like Tiny Tim when / he tried to become a ukulele
my life got ruined in the produce aisle / all the wounds scabbed over / with ritz cracker
I’ve learned to read by the lamps / of women reading on the south coast. / I’ve peered into the darkness, / no matter how cold.
It might be a good start / if you knew what what you want / was. If you stopped trying / to do the right thing
I’ve conjured a clone / more successful and lively than me. / I polish their bolts and bits – remedy their short circuits.
If drawn on paper, / an incurable condition / would be an oval, / bisected by a horizontal line.
The lungs of who you are betray the bones of what you’ve become. / I could carry you in my chest for as long as I hold my breath, / but that would be too long.
lounging on the gritty hot stone pool edge / casual fingers push ripples across / the surface where watery eyes / meet
Once again / I enter the country of my ancestors / stand on sere vegetation both familiar / and forgotten, never promised to me.
Whispers of prayers that / pricked killed her: / tragic beauty spits / box office poison.
Insistent / shedding layers of / title, pronoun, expectations / like clothes / dumped in / the messy / trail
You were a bitch to everyone you knew. / Including your own kids. / You wore Opium Yves Saint Laurent / to clean Mr. Schwartz’s house
In breathless evening traffic, / I press my forehead against the window, while / Durga Sweets and Ambala / tease my tongue through the glass.
The evening — the cold resilient / sweet evening is adrift / Listen! The muezzin / screams into corners / of himself.
You’re a half-shut knife, the woman / in the neat scarf says. I’m looking / at the miniature bolts that hold / her natty glasses in the shape / of her face.