Poems

Confit de Canard

As I expected! I had been living a French life.

All their names stuck in my head,

a broken green tambourine haloed over my head,

leaving a trail of mist,

while I traipse down Market Street.

unfinished

I couldn't change myself to fit the world

So I changed the world

I couldn't serve the world

So I made it serve me

My stomach churned when I grabbed the rod

Hinting at my immodesty, questioning my worthiness

"Is this the only road?"

"Is this the only way?"

They wanted to control the weather so much

They became the weather

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As a crystal glitters in the sun

our dream, the sensation of

gliding silent, over emerald lakes

and, when my head goes under

I hear a sound I've never been able to

Adequately describe, like the inversion of an explosion

I'm bathed in a hum, my eyes are closed now

with a swirl we're off again, wings facing the ground

Oh! Had I ever taken a breath before this moment?

Tough on crime

Did you think I was funny?

Did you really think I was smart?

Was that laugh real? It sounded so nice

to be tough on crime, and sweet to

forgive the children

Instead, a coyote smile through grain-like bodies

Swaying to and fro, swaying through my view

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Senator, looking like he might laugh

Crown of olives, leaves, and branches

those demon-ized are deified

He glances at your throat

A glance into your throat

Forever is only in the mind

a kiss to the wind

her name is the sweetest sound

Mockingbirds sing above sun-stained leaves

Lavender lemonade popsicle dates in my cyberpunk dreams

Simultaneously sorry and unforgivable

new and old

I never thought about infinity until I thought about the end

Would we know ourselves from the stars

If all we saw were stars?

Your Soul

Your soul

would look like a dark-stained rosewood

smell like an orange rind

and basil

It would break all the rules of physics

(as souls sometimes do)

It would disappear for days

and come back tired with unwrapped gifts

saying only,

"Dlya vas,"

As it only speaks Russian for some reason

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Of information

Of information

Of information

Of information

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Small manageable bites

Of information

Tiny, magnificent lives

All at once

Butterflies

the butterfly enjoys its wispy flight in the sun

it's faerie-like wings cumbersome on its tiny body

pulled to the scent of flowers

your brother left treasure on the dandelion

and fell into the grass

I think the world is fruit

the way I can think backwards

remembering I promised to never forget

the warmth of fire in a snowy sun-drenched grove

A Mirror

What's in me that disappears when you leave?

Or, what am I if I disappear when you leave?

I can't tell if these are two different questions.

Paradise

I believe we are in the garden of Eden

And the fruit of the tree is tangerines

This is how I feel with my head in her lap

Tangerine, grape, and wheat dripping down my lip

It is so selfish to ask God to own just one thing

One teensy little beautiful thing, and yet.

Do the Dead Wander?

There was a moment, when you entered through

That you knew the ants prattling on the ground

You knew to follow them to the fruit,

Foxes, an eye in the sky boring in,

The ones that eat carcasses like gods

Smelling the perfumed corpse smoke

In the hall of the heavens

But, you wake, dumb as ever

And confused by the chorus of air

And earth, for a moment you’re still the

Unblessed Hand grabbing the sword

You’re relieved, what did it mean?

What the Daisies Said to Sarah

“You have plenty of time,”

the daisies said to Sarah.

“We’ve seen much worse.”

This steeple, tall spires—

romance made gothic

by vines threading through stained glass.

They come in reds, greens, and blues,

squares, ovals, and rectangles.

Once in the morning,

again in the evening.

“You’re gorgeous,”

I told her,

“I fell in love with you

by the reddest roses

in Pompeii.”

They come all in black:

sons, daughters, brothers, sisters,

holding those daisies

If I could have you forever,

I would.

But they would miss her.

Maybe I Made Something, Earth

This place won’t change,

but you’ll see the coast.

You won’t see the sun rise,

but you’ll see it fall—

like it wasn’t selfless glory.

(It’s dying, you know.)

The stars—

they took so long to get here.

Of course, they’re tired.

Maybe I made something, Earth,

out of blood,

out of dandelion,

out of banging my head on the table.

Maybe I made something, Earth.

Made a difference.

Made you laugh.

Made a pen run out of ink.

The Lonely Old Cowboy Said

The lonely old cowboy said,

“You’re too young to be smoking.”

And with great concern,

the colors dripped from his face

and into the night.

I got older and worse.

Belligerent and in pain,

I iced and rounded out the years.

I did quit smoking though.

If Her Head Was a Cup

If her head was a cup,

she would spill it

until it was empty.

Hands steady.

Eyes closed.

Everything poured out—

quiet,

clean.

And in the dark,

something waits to be filled again.

We Stood on Our Toes

We stood on our toes

in the doorway.

The light shone outside,

begging at your feet

like a child.

But a cold woman,

speaking out of turn,

messes it up.

We start all over.

She is wise,

and we should listen—

but who would, ever?