Story, me

When the day and the daylight have dropped out,

when I have let it go by unseen,

that is when the poem finds me in its hand,

looking over my shoulder.

•

To Philam and its tiled outdoor washroom,

where we sifted and prepared the rice.

The deep ditch behind the house.

•

Capitola, the foot shower, and

the raccoons beneath the Mink House.

•

Prague, where a maimed woman

with hair the color of lightning sang opera.

•

Oh, my sweet breadcrumbs.

•

A red back porch.

•

The faded Strawberry Music Festival sweater

swaying in the salt air.

•

Sticks, succulents, a weathered plastic tiara.

•

My words, harmful and kind.

•

A desolate, dollface brigade.

•

From 30th and Scriver,

my mind makes a turn.

•

Nighttime bicycle rides and

cherry flavored chapstick.

•

Surrounded by the bad things I've done

that have made me into a good person, cut loose,

my body turns and eats itself, one by one.

•

I see inside my skins--my lives--

the versions of me spread like

spilled ink

across breasts, thighs, knees--tight,

suffocating. Blooming.

•

The wind-up bird has flown.

The dried-up well nailed shut.

I am sore and desirous

for eggs-in-a-basket, 2am ocean swims,

and Bali Shag.

•

I turn back to the afternoon and

the apples on his breath.

The moment when I placed sourgrass

on his tongue, said, chew,

and he watched me the whole time.

•

I am prolonging the alibi.

My purple boots, its heels, the scuff marks.

Even the bend in his knees as he dangled feet

from over the balcony.

•

I know the road, but my feet escape me.

I wonder if life is looking at things recede into the distance.

•

How the blood flows, waving tiny white flags of light in veins.

Fulmars winging into soft tissue.

•

The moment so small it is already disintegrating into dust,

while our bodies remain for a while yet.