Close

poems

to rest in memory

But I have seen it again,
Doubtless. Are we closer
To the beginning at birth
Or death? I have met both since the first,
Though at a glance you wouldn’t know.

When I died and became
I passed on to be one of those
Who can catch an epiphany in passing.

Before the beginning,
There is no return. This is.
Turn and return and turn.

bouquet for Stu, who showed me how

The day she stood on tiptoe
to open the gate
and venture out
of the backyard
alone and hoping
to find the fairies
basking in the verbena
and hyacinth, she learned
how natural it is
to vanish
into the hushed obscure moment
of oneself and only
because her father noticed
the lingering silence
rattle throguh the house
did she also learn how
the raucous clamor
she couldn’t help
but carry with her
always, usually
to someone’s chagrin,
could maybe be the most
conspicuous secret, kept even
from fairies and their
furtive haugty flair.

hollow cygnet

Standing on the roof, he and I watch two mourning doves mate.
I think of fallen leaves. The worms that will eat them.
Rain kissing earth. I would like to leave the city.
He and I look at each other and I know we both see birds.

Later when I look at him above me I see a woman.
Sometimes I forget there are two bodies between us.
I tried to call my mother yesterday, but it went to voicemail.
I think about her now but I don’t call. I am busy.

A grey blanket tucks in the sky and promises rain.
I have not yet decided what to be. Are you coming home?
I can’t completely eradicate the crossover between us.

a remarkable ability to disregard

“We can’t go to Saturn,” he said,
“the wind alone would tear you apart.

Imagine: skin windripped from muscle galed from bone.
If I die on Saturn, what happens
to the threads of my soul?

I want to become the distance holding celestial bodies apart.
I remember feeling far away, with my chin on his sternum,
knowing my atoms are my atoms and never our atoms.
I rememebr the room was humming—

I could feel every living thing: the birds
in my wall; my upstairs neighbor’s cough;
the dying tree beyond my window; our syncopated lungs...
On Saturn the wind will be so loud I’ll find silence.

“Come with me,” I wanted to say but didn’t.
I imagined separating my atoms from each other and releasing them
to the rats, to my sick neighbor, to every dying tree outside,

but my atoms are my atoms and never our atoms.
“You can’t swim in liquid nitrogen,” he said as he kissed my nose,
touching but not touching.

self-portrait

I felt close to death today, or something like it
And yet, yes, I deign to hope that one day everything
Will come together like light pouring through train windows
Staining each passenger’s face even after
The train dives underground;
Today I felt like I wanted to explode.
It was warm outside for November.
Sun on my bared shoulders while I walked
Through my old neighborhood with my old love,
While I thought about how many mosquito bites it would take
To cover my entire body. My entire body
Vibrated when I let my old love hold me.
I wanted to explode and take him with me.
Take everything with me. That other side, that place
I came from, calling me back.
A moquito biting my forehead called me back to the park—
I let go of my old love and his hand trailed my waist
as I let him touch me, innocent. Innocent.

jules verne

When I lift myself up onto the edge of everything
it’s easy to balance: it matters
in a way it didn’t before.

On the edge, everything
rests between my shoulder blades
and the weight almost makes me feel light,

like if I jumped, my wings would take.

MIAO