Kate takes Manhattan

What we need - Day Two Hundred ninety

2012-03-02T07:20:00.001-08:00

What we need

Theimpersonal nature of death makes reminds me how figs are interesting

until youtaste one. I don’t want to go down that road. I am someone

who wants toknow what I am in for. If I had a child I think they’d be better

off inanother country, far from my rejection fear. I picture them, a red

dot againsta pair of sheets, something I had created and abandoned.

I never knowhow closely to look at a friend, without it seeming

like I lovethem. I dated an allergist who didn’t tell me for a long

time he wasallergic to my perfume. We crouch by what we need,

waiting fora sign that it returns the feeling. If it is inanimate, an object

such as awrecking ball, there will be no return.

We will bewaiting a long time.

Tattoo Parlor - Day Two Hundred eighty-nine

2012-03-01T09:13:00.002-08:00

Tattoo parlor

I amdumbstruck by the interiors of animals

at thetattoo parlor, how I imagine someone

carved themto look that way. I love red,

but nothere, in this bleeding place.

I try forthe first time not to look at you,

the way youreyes sing with the pain. I refuse

to weep forthe possibility of an early

funeral, theway I feel when you ride

home on yourbike without a helmet.

You couldsay my sister lost her husband

in a naturaldisaster, but you would be wrong.

Thesidelines are for those who need to learn

to mournproperly. I have been broken

myself timeand again, but I am learning

that repair istedious and unwelcomed.

If youdissolve the roots of a plant,

it isdifficult to recover its health. I will touch

you intoremembering this moment, here

in the shop,a needle going through your arm.

All thedistractions paradise offers

are notenough to match this.

Small audience - Day Two Hundred eighty-eight

2012-02-29T08:36:00.002-08:00

Small audience

We were inthe basement when it happened, when youth

turned intosomething else. That was the year the dogwoods

didn’tbloom, the year the Seegers moved out of our house

and it wasquiet enough to hear the cactus’s thin arm

piercing theair. That was the year of my undoing,

whenadulthood sank its teeth in me. The long spring

followed byan adequate summer, only I wasn’t ready

to behandled. My crushes weren’t the same

men whotouched me in the dark, the window open

to reveal thelast vestiges of my childhood.

There ispleasure in being seen like that, in having

your undoingdocumented for passerby. It was a small

audience, anight or two discussed outside my room.

You couldsee my longing like a lily in the dark.

A small savior - Day Two Hundred eighty-seven

2012-02-28T07:08:00.002-08:00

A small savoir

Thebotanical gardens make me think of my bottom.

My father’sgirlfriend was wheeling him around, his bad

hips orknees making it impossible to walk the lovely

grounds. Therewas a Spanish flower exhibit, and I leaned

in to smellone. The scent alone can make you passout,

said the gardenattendant when I came to. A dark

haired manfingered my wrist, looking for a pulse, but it felt

like he washitting on me. I have an over active ego

at times.Someone accused me of being a drug addict

and I draggedmy father and his girlfriend out the back

exit. I’m notsure who saw me, cleaning myself like a pair

of sheets. Ididn’t want anyone to be able to link my arm

to anything.Back at home with my idiotic mouth, I called

my bestfriend and suggested I drown myself in a lake.

She talkedme out of it, giving me a few reasons to live,

one of whichwas walking around my apartment looking

for food. Ihad long ago learned to blot out the pain

with thelittle clump of fur and legs I’d grown to love.

He remindedme of one of those flowers, red and teeming

with delight.I put my arms around him, swollen

and scarredas they were. If he was a tree, I would

never havechopped him down.

Cash lucky - Day Two Hundred eighty-six

2012-02-27T08:15:00.000-08:00

Cashlucky

I had that dream where I’m shootingup again,

where the only boy who loves me isholding

my veins together in an act ofdefiance.

I was cash lucky that night, visitedthe dealer

one too many times. The endlessbarbeque

where we met kept playing in myhead,

a harmless, broken version ofitself.

There is the memory of holding you,

how we went back to my place thatnight

and kissed until we’d bruised ourlips

and then we made snowmen of the bits

of paper I’d collected in a year.

The dealer provided me with dirty

instruments to inject the stuff

into my soul, that cavity that fills

with pleasure until it voids itselfagain.

There were no beginnings in thedream,

only roads that ended in darkpastures

or other sullen places. I fingeredmy luck

with the soiled needle, fed mydespair

all the pieces of furniture that hadtaken

up residence in me. In the morning,I slept

fitfully, with a desire to getclean.

It’s as if I’d been driving throughthe night,

doing what I could to launch mydesire

like a captured sparrow back intothe air.

Happy threat - Day Two Hundred eighty-five

2012-02-25T12:33:00.002-08:00

Happy threat

There’d beenloose injuries in the night, you prying me apart

in my sleep.Nothing we do is dangerous, youcomplained,

and I thoughtof the inconvenient girls you’d invited

to theparty, how beautiful they were, like bars of expensive

soap. Thehappy threat of extinction led me to love you

even more,the way someone jealous might tip over a stool

to trip aperson on their way to the object of envy.

I am reelingfrom instances like that, the ones where I care

too much tothrow in any evidence of a flag.

Reasonable tolerance - Day Two Hundred eighty-four

2012-02-24T08:15:00.002-08:00

Reasonable tolerance

The nightholds you, your hands, and the coast.

We drivethrough one after another small

town, wonderingif we are praying in the right

direction. Mydog’s heart, that petal, has required

me to setaside my life’s savings. A pigeon

flies at thewindow and misses. We talk

of how youwinnow down the urges

of someone wrackedwith guilt.

The son ofone of my father’s girlfriends

jumped offhis dresser when he was eight

and brokehis collarbone. Oh, the small

delights ofchildhood, the pain support

we’ve cometo welcome and desire.

I don’t knowanything about reasonable

tolerance,but I have learned to fill

my sadness. Inthe scene of us driving,

I am a willinghostage. Events will occur,

beneath yourclothes, which I know

nothingabout. In some town we are driving

through, aman is angry. You can tell

by the way heturns the wheel too fast.

Another manwalks across the street

with his armaround a woman. The back

of my wrist feelstight, like an apple.

The sunset was gorgeously flawed - Day Two Hundred eighty-three

2012-02-23T07:19:00.001-08:00

The sunset was gorgeously flawed

I was evencritical of nature those days, the way the trees

would handover their leaves like small offerings. I felt

they werepushed on me, the way religious

pamphlets ona subway were. The day I woke up

and ate icecream I was burning with depression,

trying toget rid of the throb and ache of that.

The thingsthat comprise my mood now: your enlarged

soul, like aheart out of place, the economy

special atthe local deli, the way the drunks

gathered asif in a tank at the watering

hole down thestreet from me, oxygen

as rare inthem as water. Someone once told me

there are asmall amount of failures required

of each ofus, and I’m pretty sure I’ve had

my share.Maybe I’m made of twigs, or I’ve reconstructed

my happinessto match the quantity I think I’m allowed.

If fallowmeans anything near what I think, then I’m lying

here with mydefects ringing like a miniature bell.

I’m the onlyone who can save me, aside from maybe

Jesus. I’lllet you know when I’m through.

Good deeds - Day Two Hundred eighty-two

2012-02-22T07:28:00.001-08:00

Good deeds

I am wavingto you from somewhere illegal, somewhere where women

gift theirhair because they have to. Good deeds are wracked with sorrow,

but we dothem. And then we climb into the little cult called the eighties,

nostalgiafor the old hotel, for standing on the street in a bikini selling

our wares. There’sconfusion surrounding notoriety, and then there’s

thecomfortable distance it puts us from our fans. You’ll be the first

to know ifthat happens to me, if stability flings me at fame

like acigarette. No one smokes anymore, but there are a few

leftovericons waiting to be extinguished. I want to hold

somethingunderwater, a shell or the head of the man I love,

to thank thesky for its devotion and all the little places I have learned

to callhome. Once, I thought there is nowhere togo but then I traveled

a littlefarther out where the rocks are shaped like birds

and all theinstances of pain turn up drunk and in ball gowns.

If a beautypageant is only for the sane, then I’m never going

to win one. Let’shold our own instance of kind

splendor,parade around the living room like horses.

If a snowglobe could contain us, fists and all.

A brief recollection of need - Day Two Hundred eighty-one

2012-02-21T09:00:00.001-08:00

A brief recollection of need

There is anarticle of fire in the woods where they built

the mall. Somethingugly from my childhood rings

in flames, atree or a button I lost once. All the ropes

we’ve usedto tie our hands back, and a candy bar

we forgot toeat. There is no beauty in this

destruction,this careful vindication of youth.

The flames arered and orange, colors signifying

heat, littleembers lasting only as long as the winter

air allows.

I have acrush on someone I love, someone

who iswatching this with me. Later, we will go

to my houseand make love like any couple, our arms

crossedbeneath us to represent religion

or someother graceless time. I was many miles

from homewhen I witnessed the fire. I know only

what I willallow into my head, the soft

knowledgethat someone

might havesuffered.

Weeds weredestroyed, a careful hollow

put in theirplace. All that dull pain

heaped onsomeone. I don’t envy their desire

to besomewhere else. Maybe they imagined

a fieldfilled with daisies, or some other

recollectionof need. From the greasy

window, oncehome, I look for where the fire

livedthrough the night, but I could not find

a trace ofits red burning.

Results - Day Two Hundred eighty

2012-02-20T17:47:00.001-08:00

Results

All this time with a weak heart, balancing

to the Laundromat. We’ve suffered a fair

amount of failures, gone on gorgeously

flawed vacations where the only thing

ticking away was what would destroy

us, nostalgia fields where we went

to visit our loved ones and even

our enemies, guilty of everything

from adoring us too much to creating

inebriation rooms in which to get us

drunk enough to believe they

were Jesus. I love your enlarged parts,

the red places you hide your feelings

like anyone who is quietly sick

would. I don’t care about any song

except the one you are writing now.

Today was spent sorting clothes,

the little jacket you will wear

around the house. I want to keep you

warm, away from those who will take

you from me too soon. As if any

time would be appropriate, any time

more sensitive to my needs.

Bullied - Day Two Hundred seventy-nine

2012-02-17T07:22:00.001-08:00

Bullied

Once, I criedat the terrible beauty of a friend’s

betrayal. Theindifferent mass of me I presented

to her later.She had teased me for being too close

to theground when I sang, for leaning forward

into thecreative sponge of air. It was all so ugly

and lovely, theloud chant she compelled the others

to join, theway they lulled against me like a kitchen

table andits chair. I don’t permit myself to go

back thereoften, only once a year or so, to visit

the unkind likelinessof sorrow. It is difficult

to explain whatit feels like to be bullied, to be set

against thesnow and visited like a bad sculpture.

I watchothers knee deep in grief, the way they crush

into theincident that is causing them discomfort.

I am jealousof their surety, how they stumble

across painlike a bee and its flower. I’m not sure

I’m capableof weathering all the possibilities

of pain, thetiny angles that claw at us

until we areringed down.

Suburban film - Day Two Hundred seventy-eight

2012-02-16T09:12:00.001-08:00

Suburbanfilm

It was a suburban film, the type youwatch in the suburbs.

I didn’t have the confidence to likeor dislike it, so I just

sat there, a bag of pretzels on mylap. My best friend,

Veronique, told me she had killedsomeone.

Itwas a pretty little murder, shesaid. I felt like the lucky

instrument of her confession, afickle consumer of news.

I told my mother when I got home, andshe laughed.

She had her own troubles, a set ofboyfriends following

her around. One used a magnifying glass,another, a paper

cup. I was jealous of her grief overmy father’s leaving.

Exposure to the causes of pain doesnot necessarily explain

it. I wanted my grandmother’s clot,the one that had killed

her, to travel through me and decidemy fate. The ugly

way I cried at night, propped up inbed. My father’s

leaving would have little effect onme for years.

And then, it would hit me that allmy longing was put

in the wrong bin. I’d been aiming mysadness in the wrong

direction, following up with theonly people who loved

me. I remember the film was about abeekeeper

who was also a priest. I’ve neverunderstood
how the two are intertwined.

Caring for a loved one - Day Two Hundred seventy-six

2012-02-15T10:49:00.001-08:00

Dark

Last night,trying to get away from you, I injured my shoulder

like a smalltown. I was so complete before the fight, ready to burst

into flamesfor you. Love’s concerns can’t touch me when I’m passing

through yourmouth like a twig. When the shouting ensues, I want to run

to you, putmy arms around you in a fog of anger. It’s like a chalk

dust sofine, my lungs inhabit it. In the dark, I spell your name

on my hand,loving every curvature and spine. Letters are ruinous

when we’reunhappy, the language of hurt like a blow to your soft

palate. I’mforever grateful that you love me, the inside of my soul

lined up totrick you. It’s idiotic to think I could live without this,

the man wholoves my weakening into silence.

What's necessary - Day Two Hundred seventy-five

2012-02-14T10:13:00.001-08:00

What’snecessary

When my father was drunk, he was so far

away it was like looking at a housefrom an airplane

that is supposed to represent yourhouse. I’d hear about him

weaving through a set of lanes, orhitting a neighbor’s

cat with his antique car. I don’t evenknow what his ears

look like, but I do know they’ve causeda lot of pain.

Or maybe not those particularappendages, maybe just

the flailing of arms and legs and allthe places

you’d expect to find a heart. Hisgirlfriends used

to come to our door in the middle ofthe night

bearing gifts, boxes and boxes ofstuffed

animals. They were trying to getinformation out of

us, but I wouldn’t cave. My mother toldme

you can’t trust a woman in love. Iimagine her

and my father making love, or tryingto, in order

to create my sister and me. It’s notthe sort of scene

you want embedded on your eyelids.

After the prisoner - Day Two Hundred seventy-four

2012-02-13T08:55:00.001-08:00

After the prisoner

In sixthgrade, I wanted to be lucky at everything, not just the big

instrumentbetween my legs, playing concerts for the whole

school whenmy mother would throw up little drama flags.

I wanted anervous breakdown, anything to get me out

of where I was.The prisoner started writing me letters,

flashes ofgenius or at least brutal snippets from someone

else’sworld. It’s not your turn, I’d tellmyself when he wanted

to meet and Ihad to tell him I wasn’t allowed to meet boys.

All I had tohug at night was a small rock from my collection.

My parentshad put my stuffed animals on the back lawn.

They stuckout like pinwheels or miniature Ferris wheels.

I attempteda rescue of the donkey, my favorite, but it was rain-

soaked ormaybe a dog had begun to feed on it, I wasn’t sure.

I never didmeet up with the prisoner, never had the gluttony

weekend wedescribed in our letters. We didn’t actually

participatein any killing, but we talked about schemes

thatincluded some of each of our friends. The prisoner

told me theresponsibility of being human was getting

to be toomuch, and then I never heard from him again.

I settled myyouth like a cigarette, the flash of adulthood

beginning inthe backseat of a rented car with raised

seats so mylegs had the imprint of tiny maps. The gentleman

I was with interpretedthem for me the way you would

a troubledpast. If I hadn’t had one, it was still possible, he said.

He told meit’s as easy to travel backwards as forwards.

Taunt - Day Two Hundred seventy-three

2012-02-11T13:23:00.000-08:00

Taunt

The universetaunts us with its grisly meat, stars made into patterns

until theydisappear around a bad break. So much for loneliness

when we’reall inside like this, huddled together around the telescope,

a bunch ofcowboys listening for white noise. So much for us breaking

some sort ofrecord like who can thrum the longest into the stratosphere,

or the soundof cellophane breaking drawn out until it aches

its way intoyour heart. I’ve stored away some protein bars

for when theworld ends, when everything goes tame

and thereare no more bullies or things being bullied.

Let’s golive in the East Village, a chorus of K-Mart clad teenagers

following uslike some lucky song, all the car engines threatening

to go silentat the same time. I’m out of static, so I’m going to message

this overthe radio some other way, fill the void of knowing

with a dimsum lunch at your brother’s favorite restaurant

or a widelyaccepted movie about a couple aging their way

towardsdeath. First, I’ll snare a good haircut, maybe a noticeable

bob, andtell you I like having you around. Maybe we’ll move

in togetherand I can prove it on the coffee table, in the middle

of the roomwith my roommate looking on like we’re making

a movie.I’ll be the bombshell playing the role of the girl

who getsclobbered by her boyfriend’s big head, the sort

of motionpicture you regret having seen. So much for drinking

tea at theWaldorf Astoria, for being out of sorts

in thebathroom with a tube of lipstick I’ve always used

for writinglittle poems on the mirror. It’s my way of leaving

a mark, ofhaving something to say aside from hello and goodbye,

the marbledinterior of the ladies’ room leaving its memory

so deep inme I’ll have to use tweezers to get it out.

Pleasure void - Day Two Hundred seventy-two

2012-02-10T07:44:00.001-08:00

Pleasure void

We wanted tobe swollen by desire, taking our bodies by force.

The hingesof what we remember rust over and we come to the night

filled witha lovely fear. If we hadn’t been desperate to know

ourselves, butwe were. Sometimes we lifted the clouds

on ourbacks, sliced the sky open like a piece of cake.

There is an understandingof escape, but I don’t know it.

Memory tethersme to the past like a lawn chair that is glued

down. I’mnever going to know what it was like to be innocent,

void ofpleasure. If the world isn’t ready for a wall, then it isn’t.

I willtravel from image to image, will declare readiness

overgluttony when I see some things. Let me witness

the heartcracked as it is, the broken places where you can fit

a wholevase. At the bottom of the sea, it gets quiet,

viper fishand giant squid fighting for attention. Many deep

seacreatures are black. I will call them all in, will hold

a ceremonybased on despair. If assigning feelings

doesn’twork, I will ready myself for the gentleness

that cloaks usin our sleep. There is only one way to turn

around whenyou are being buoyed by water. Let that way

allow forsome comprehension of what it means

to betedious and obscure.

Maybe this is about blame - Day Two Hundred seventy-one

2012-02-09T07:59:00.001-08:00

Maybe this is about blame

We have allbeen betrayed in our sleep. I am loose

today, unraveledbefore the reading. I eat fast

so no onewill think I have failed. The safety

of childhoodhas not issued its magic to me.

Violence wassteady, like rain. My mother slept

most of myyouth, distributing her weight

in the bed.The greater beauty of sorrow

isdestruction, how it eats into us like birds.

I havealways cared for others, have always relied

too much ontheir uselessness. Oh, the plainness

of memory, howI see the same scene tilt and cry.

I am sayingmouth, and eye, all the parts that make

up a whole.Sad gestures travel through me

liketemporary weather. One is of my hand

calling youhome, another of all the treachery

involved withlungs. Deceit can be anonymous,

or it can betethered to a model we ascribe to it.

Maybe thisis about blame, or maybe it’s not about

anythingbesides grief. I stopped listening

to my dreamssome time ago, and now

they havelearned to haunt me.

Regret - Day Two Hundred seventy

2012-02-08T08:04:00.001-08:00

Regret

I think wewent too far into the past, the poetic emptiness of a hotel bed.

God doesn’t bleed, you said, and thenyou made an emotional rescue.

I waslooking through photographs of a sofa and a sky, all the flirting

I’d done inhigh school which amounted to about an hour.

In thecenter of that year the photograph was taken, I was an object

of desire. Allnight I’d float, a little cup of water beside me.

I wascapable of happiness then, but I didn’t know it. They say the empty

spaces arethe most vivid, like pockets in traffic or where your knee

meets yourleg. I’m tired of praying into a void, the matted

hair thatcomes from loving you. The faulty logic of girl

raised onmen makes me vulnerable for release. Focus on the pain

when itcomes, the needle dragging your vein like a leaf.

Outside, itwill be raining and the sea will expand to allow it.

Famous - Day Two Hundred sixty-seven

2012-02-03T07:29:00.001-08:00

Famous

Havingbecome a mere object of envy, she knows it is perverse

to clamorfor space in the filling room. The pool is shaped like a kidney

or a pod,and she would rather be there, or anywhere. There is a reveal

of birds outthe window, which she can see from her place on the sofa.

She is nextto another writer, a girl who looks shocked in response

to knowingher. Nowhere is the freedom of secrecy allowed.

Some peopleare harder to respect than others, she knows.

She wonderswhat it is like to walk into a space that is not wounded,

to experiencethe joy that comes from being invisible. The water invites

her gracelike an orange invites its eater, or a piñata its bat.

When she isswimming, she is close to being obscure, a heart

moving inits container, the house that holds it.

Small victories - Day Two Hundred sixty-six

2012-02-02T07:59:00.001-08:00

Small victories

The night isfilled with noisy accusations, a pin cushion

to house ourmisery. What needs repair is the way I hold

togetherwith anyone, how there is still evidence

of drinkingin me. I used to walk around openly

wounded. I’m cleaner now, small victories adding

up likeoranges. Sponges know more than we do,

usually.It’s all about the trick of feeling full.

I’ve had itout with cherry blossoms, the heightened

beauty wewind around our eyes to blot out pain.

Guilt pullsme through the pool like a string.

It’s morningagain, time to adhere to everything

the nightdeclined. I’d say mystery, and blackberries,

and fog, butnone of that has any meaning

without ameans of recovering. Gluttony

and shameare all I feel some days, and others,

I am filledwith a sense of well-being. I am thinking

even somebees are useless at work, that forgiveness

exists foranyone who allows themselves to be fragile.

Remedy - Day Two Hundred sixty-five

2012-02-01T07:30:00.001-08:00

Remedy

I didn’tknow my sorrows until I saw them lined

up on thelawn. The snow rendered them obscure,

but still Iknew. One stuck up like a toothpick,

ready toconquer. All my pleasure was guided

into thebody of a deer. Sometimes, killing

drivesstraight into the ring of beauty.

I have heardanimals mourn each other,

have seenthem fling themselves against a wall.

There is nolimit to what we will do, no way to carry

our grief ontiny hinges. I have covered the morning

uselessly,like a paper bag inside another bag.

Let me visitthe snow and guess at its capacity

to hold me,the heart that fastens me

to the yardwhere I have danced before.

On morningssimilar to this, but less tragic.

Gestures - Day Two Hundred sixty-four

2012-01-31T08:30:00.000-08:00

Gestures

I’m talking about the time you tripped me

on cement and I went headfirst into a temporary

coma. It is the substance of work that keeps me

glad I stilled myself that day, rested on the hinges

of everyone’s despair. I’ve had a touch of vertigo

since then, uncertain of where I fit. I’m guilty

of rising and falling each day, the sorts of things

we do without thought. So many of us are sullen,

stuck in our beds. I want to be the one shattering

out of my nightgown, blowing through

the neighborhood. I’ve been to the banks of rivers,

seen their geese lined up like small men. Keep me

busy and I will notify you of your happiness,

all the things you need to do to attach yourself

to bliss. In the end, you can accuse me of playing

God or you can thank me. I’m not going

to stand in your way.

What degree of honesty is required of me - Day Two Hundred sixty-three

2012-01-30T09:17:00.000-08:00

What degree of honesty is required of me

It was summer and I was wearing a mourning veil,

but I wasn’t in mourning. I’d been repeating my name

in my head for days. When I was twelve, my best friend’s mother,

who was obese, made ice cubes out of iced tea.

We’d go swimming pretty often, and she’d swim fully

clothed. Once, they had a Halloween party and I touched

a pair of naked grapes. It was the closest I’d come to sex,

those peeled, wet lobes. The veil was a gift from an admirer.

I told myself everyone was an admirer in those days.

The fiction that went on inside me led me to cling

to disbeliefs. Another time, the best friend told me

her mother was a champion guilt tripper.

We all have mothers like that, I said, but I wasn’t sure.

I didn’t want to commit the same mistakes, to always

be accusing others. In those days, it was good

to be needed. We had rock collections we thought

moved at night, violent as birds.

There is a ritual of leaving - Two Hundred sixty-two

2012-01-29T10:59:00.001-08:00

There is a ritual of leaving

I was throwing up oranges that night. It was a holiday

of some sort and I slept on a waterbed, the spins

making me seasick. You hovered over me

like a tiny badge, spent the night curating my drunkenness.

Before I fell, I had done an improvisation of a suicide,

a mouthful of imaginary pills making it hard to speak.

Tonight I’m thinking of crimes I’ve borne witness to,

all the women I’ve seen hit. There isn’t a seaside town

where I haven’t grown comfortable,

even though my alcoholic bottom was filled with pain.

Let’s say I’ve graduated from there,

gone on to something else. Looking back, I see

restaurants filled with regret, things I left

beneath the table like fox hooves and airplane

liquor bottles. The floor is littered with my remains.

It’s early, and I still have a lot to learn about leaving.

Pinned - Day Two Hundred sixty-one

2012-01-28T12:06:00.000-08:00

Pinned

Your ribcage is soft when I press it.

It is like a stream of sugar in tea, the last color

left in the wheel. I’m the small room where

you were meant to stay, that mechanism

of hope and bone. Every speck of me is related

to twig and dust, what we pass through

on our way home. There is no boredom here,

only a place to lie down. Don’t expect

the decoration most women offer.

If I were a museum, I would house

only the primitive. I would hold up a sign

that says free of charge and then I would wait

for the admirers to pour in. If there’s someone
here who knows who God is, give me a sign.

I’ve pinned all my hopes already,

so there’s nowhere left to go.

Rush - Day Two Hundred sixty

2012-01-27T08:24:00.000-08:00

Rush

Our reckless weekend leads me to question

just how flexible I want to be. From the perspective

of walls, our voices carried in anger or love.

However slight, my body ripened beneath you.

I am a series of rooms for you to carry

or destroy. There are always choices,

what to pour down and what to save.

Sometimes in flight we forget what it was like

to stand. I want to prop you on my table

like a toy, the sort of thing I can look at.

At night, you hold me down in an embrace.

The confidence of the blackbird relies

on food supply. Oh, luminous winter,

decide what you will do with me.
Help me to remember the wavering past.

I will not be destroyed by an invitation,

the slow carry of wreckage. Once, it was enough

to know that I was loved. At a picnic, not long

ago, and at a baseball game. Everything rushes

to the surface then.

Products of joy - Day Two Hundred fifty-nine

2012-01-26T08:19:00.000-08:00

Products of joy

The cat that got killed while we were watching it, and the willow

I loved out the back yard we buried it beneath. There was no body

when the owners returned, friends of my mother’s who would never

speak to us again. There is a message in subtraction here, cat from heart

from heart from cat. All the pieces of beauty I will marry someday.

It will fit beneath my ribs, in that space pared down for fists

and other products of joy. Everything begins in love, or why

would we follow down that road. Mountains are large

from a distance. I have found fallen bird's nests

and wondered at the tiny things in them.

A gesture before goodbye - Day Two Hundred fifty-eight

2012-01-25T08:53:00.000-08:00

A gesture before goodbye

We’d come from a garden

party where they were selling shoes,

the kind I’d usually pay attention to.

But you were there, peering at me

beneath my hat. Next we went to the graveyard

where we made out while they dug someone

up or put someone in. I love the way you’re

in a band. I loved it then. We’re on thin ice,

a cliché that belongs here, and I’m going

to tell you something about love.

The horse’s heart beats even while we ride it.

I’m not going to embrace the hive anymore,

all that guilty stinging. All we wanted

to get done, to tell the porn star to remember,

and the girl at the grocery store –

it’s not going to happen, is it?

All the children we eyed together,

all the little apartments.

Tell me to stop.

Suicidal tendencies in your reader - Day Two Hundred fifty-seven

2012-01-24T08:36:00.000-08:00

Suicidal tendencies in your reader

Gun and petals don’t go together, but you put them side by side

in a poem. You are any stranger to me, writing in a dark room

or a bright one, everything I imagine about you probably true.

I’ve left photographs of myself on windowsills. My strategies

are backfiring, all the meetings I’ve attended amounting

to nothing. I’d like to relax inside that fist of yours, to be a kind

thing amidst all that anger. I’d call myself unlucky if I drank, a small

gift of inappropriate ease. All the acts I committed then

were a little off like the dials on a game you’ve smashed

against the wall too many times. My center longs to be lined

up with yours, or a museum piece, or another portion

of comfortable art. This isn’t an apology, but I do owe

you one. I’ve read your poem too often, leaned too much

on its abrupt legs. I’m afraid I can’t stand alone anymore,

the one horse you know will fail. Put me right side once

more and I will make attempts at willingness.

Maybe with your guidance I will learn to live again.

Blur - Day Two Hundred fifty-six

2012-01-23T07:54:00.000-08:00

Blur

I don’t want to prove my usefulness to you.
I was a nurse once, though only a pretend one.

Which is not to say I didn’t cure the loneliness

of some men. The sky is full of doctors, those

small stars. My father is one of them, his hand

around a bottle of gin and a woman

I do not recognize from the photographs.

There are men who know their hearts,

and those who can map them together

with little plastic pieces. It’s good to be needed,

but not in every sense. I was prepared

to be completely sacrificial, to live in your mouth

until the appropriateness of that was called

into question. We all grow unsuitable

after a time, or otherwise we echo

someone else’s pattern of grief.

Charlotte's - Day Two Hundred fifty-five

2012-01-22T12:55:00.000-08:00

Charlotte’s

We drowned our sorrows at a coffee shop down the road

from me. All our little victories adding up to very little.

What couples aren’t each other’s infants, you said,

and I agreed. There wasn’t a lot more space to conquer –

we’d taken up four seats already. We were used to being

a little unkind. The couple at the next table couldn’t hide

their unhappiness either. I think everyone in that café

was heading towards self destruction. I had a sadness

running through me like a string. It was what I had said

about Mary’s poem, and now it was aimed at me.

Despite my father being a doctor, I’ve never learned

to cure anything. You were sitting across from me,

reminding me of my loneliness, and yet I loved you

more than I had every loved anything. Maybe letting

go is about being able to do this, stabling emotion

like supporting someone’s head until space and time

doesn’t allow that anymore. We’re all drowning

in a way, emotions piling up in the corner until

we either deal with or dissolve into them.

Winter swim - Day Two Hundred fifty-four

2012-01-21T10:33:00.001-08:00

Winter swim

The pool makes me forget.

Chemical water rises

when I get in. Once, I lived

in a basement where the air

was thick with dew.

We would remove it in big

buckets, the dehumidifier

ticking the night away.

I don’t know what I am

capable of, aside from protecting

you. Pushing off in the pool

means getting somewhere,

but it’s not clear

that I’m moving.

There’s the middle line,

thick and red, and I look down

to prove my existence.

I’ll never write about the moon

again if I can help it, but the stars

surround it like small doctors.

There are so many promises

I won’t keep. What the night

contains is only one of them.