When I returned, I was different. I was cold all the time, / wore wool against my skin. The shock of it / stayed with me into summer.
Here is a moment / from the lives of ancient kings, / their high thrones on either hand.
Six years, three hundred and sixty-four days / since we laid the long wreath of white lilies, / roses and spray carnations on the mound of soil
Tonight / I Facebook / under-share / a million / thoughts / imploding / in my brain
The elder sister / eats a bloated honeybee, / pinches it between her fingers, / brings it to her lips, and sucks / it down her throat, stinger / and all.
You said that thirty was the new / twenty / just like love was the new / war. / I failed to see the difference before.
talking with my historian is / throwing up at the art museum / descending a staircase nude / emerging from a well
Never speak to me / of things without soul / they don’t do it for me / or for you.
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.