Having nottouched myselfin some timeowing tothe erosionof incrementalsadnessesthat can detacha personfrom their bodyas cleanlyas a cliffis sheared froma coastline,the doctorinforms methat lovingmyselfis now myjob. So I take upmy own twofingers andwork them withthe seriousnessof earned saltand an imaginarysalaryinto the littoralcavern ofmy pussy. Andlike a wavethat sweeps theunsuspectingfrom the rockybreakwater,quite suddenlyeveryonewho has everfucked me isfucking meagain—mywife’s …
My mother tells me my grandmother has begun to touch herself. Dress up, hands between her legs, furious & buckling, & I wonder: how long has it been since she’s been touched by anyone? Decades, I presume. Does there come a point in life where you stop craving pleasure or do you learn to no …
Pelvic bones are nothing like wingsor blades. I know because I saw them in a meadowat Mount Diablo. They must have come from a mother cow,birth canal a wide hollow. I touchedthe wild rye that pulsed inside.*Once, in the desert, my motherand I argued about the shape of the earthuntil I wept. Wind chimes jangled …
A rugged coyote wandered close by the oceanside communities. Tired, it sat beneath a palm tree and took a nap. It dreamed of its former life as a medieval dragon. It had conquered many rustic lands as a fierce dragon. Now, the lonesome coyote hardly ever sang anymore. Most of the city slickers didn’t realize …
Outside, the swarm. The dog found it first,ran crying, and now we’re both wearing balaclavasin July. You in mittens, two sweatshirts, some Oakleysfrom God knows where, hands up against the sliding glass.After the poison, the exterminator, still the waspsevery morning. The dog’s face swollen now like a football.In their nest they sleep well, we think. …
with a phrase from Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy” a name is a noose that won’t let you be.my full name was once woven from threefibers, a cord of three that i dare to breakinto two knots on a tongue. please excuse,foreman, my Hebrew. Yirmeyahu means Godis high. it’s why i love the tower from distance.O- …
grandma unfolds her dress, & 1967 patternsinto life, its story mapped in provinces, infamilies splayed naked on a dusking weave. The dressis handsewn, seaming bound by restitching. Lilac & rhubarbthreads haphazard & layer threefold along the waistlike fingers of smoke. Mesmerizing, because a dying fireis a spectacle. The dress of a hometown documentingevery small violence. …
It is winter butthe poets are still coming.I once lived in atown where there were no poetsor children. The treeswere made of salt. When the windshook, nothing happenedbut daylight. There were no handssince there was nothing to take.
a golden shovel / after Against Me! All I ever wanted to be—the summerdaydreamed of. Girl in the floral-print dress& endless golden fields. I just wanted youto future me, when so many people wantme past-tensed. I know I can’t convince themI deserve survival. A future togrow up into. I know that they can’t seea girl’s …
At the sentencing, a snake of painroiled inside her veins. She did notfaint or scream, or sink to the white tilethe way Alma did. She stuck her fingerin the ripped hole of her pocket’slining, she felt the inside of the woolcoat, the nowhere of material,that black hole of seam and stitch.She saw his face, blank, …
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