03.23.16

Four is my favorite number Appropriately it’s the same number of days It takes to think about you Not that I don’t think about you Constantly Because I do Four days until the thought of you Wells up in my eyes And curls my shoulders forward Instinctual self-comfort When no task or hobby Erases your divine ghost

01.25.16

"He could never handle the raw force of you. You're like an earthquake."

01.16.15

My hair's a bit greasy like it always is I'm driving distracted The music alternates between frenzied guitar and that mid-tempo unsettled beat that satisfyingly fuels my anxiousness "One more time for the record" I'm fidgeted and with destination I'm happy

The Young Domestic

The air mattress and I twinge in defeat when his feet hit the floor. I’m awake now though my eyes wouldn’t know it. He’s out the door and into another. I hear his morning ritual, his nausea. His stomach wretches and my heart responds. He gets his sea legs and bursts back into the room letting the door slam wildly on the wall. I think of his mother - that’s coming out of his pocket. But he’s already on youtube because it’s morning and that means morning music. He lines up the same two songs we listen to every day and recites them with unadulterated enthusiasm. He pours coffee, lights a cigarette, and sits on the patio in a simultaneously comfortable and flamboyant fashion. Small-minded people attribute it to being French or gay, of which he’s neither, really. I sit across from him and drink him in as I fidget and try to look alluring. He loads the dishes, gives me tasks, and rewards himself with another cigarette. He puts on different clothes and shows me how to pull weeds in his mother’s garden while educating me on maintaining healthy plants. I try to look patient and interested, but it's hot in the sun and I want to kiss and touch and eat and watch tv and fuck again.

Waking Up

His mother rouses him as she leaves for work, "get up it’s 8:30” Or maybe she lets him sleep. He’s fragile now, erratic. I think that’s why I’m allowed to be here. His sleep breaches like contractions gaining frequency. He stirs and pulls me In with demanding and angry conviction. Once I’m caught, he’s pacified As long as I stay quiet and still, I can sinfully revel in staying alive in the possession of a bear.

Silence

I think the reason I've waned as a poet over the years is that the truths I wanted to tell were the only ones that would ostracize me from the people I love the most. I’ve always been the girl who says the things everyone else is afraid to. But this, my joy, needs care and protection. It needs mercy from my sword of a tongue. How poets keep friends, lovers, and family I’d really like to know.

.

You like it when I buck my hips in anticipation and impatience for your manhood, huh Daddy?