LAST LATE POEM

 

pour yourself

into the pink glass

for when i’m thirsty

in night’s hollow center

red lights and cracking trees

awake like me

HOW TO LIVE ALONE

the air is thick with 

curtain winter

my pelvis is my basket

heavy with the syrup

“that’s the dream”

a house on the bluff 

some kind of  monster floats 

out there in the bay

brittle heron leg 

freestanding on the shelf 

by the table

you may eat 

fish & chips, 

drink margaritas

from cans 

handle it 

or go away

CAKES FOR KAMRYN

what feels like messing up. sometimes forgetting,

sometimes being afraid. over mixing, and never

the right apparatus to carry the cake through a

hot crowd. dense and white, full of nectarines

and strawberries, covered in cream and marigolds,

so heavy, so melting, the whole thing slid around so I

set it in the bramble while we waited to sing.

orange zest blender cake at the beach where

the woman stood with baby shoes but no baby,

where it always feels like someone might emerge from the woods,

puncture the saccharine scene with a hex or a shot.

quiche at the housewarming, J + I stopped en route to take selfies

because we looked pretty. red shirt I loved with the sweetheart pin,

my black flower dress with holes that don’t shut.

this month chocolate for grief, for winter, for the unthinkable,

skinny and dense, 2 layers, mom’s coastal blackberries

slathered between.

AS LOVE

dry and put away the dishes 

sit up with a shotgun 

abandon the idea that seduced you 

let yr hands be tied 

send a screenshot 

move your ass around 

fry eggs 

add oil 

add cinnamon

make a meme 

grind cardamom 

knock on the door 

feel desire move 

stretch  

take a picture 

type up yr nightmares 

be a canyon 

be so cheesy 

say “cool” and “thank you” 

relate everything 

shake the jars 

burn the garlic

say boo boo 

knead the poison out 

brush yr hair  

bundle up

go outside 

ALIVE

skin racing  like an ant farm 

in the little digital hand mirror

accidental simulation

of maybe something close 

to how much really goes on 

potential to blush, flush 

in red painted bands that holler

you’re drunk!

before I feel it 

am I old, am I young

do I care 

gutted by loss 

of youth and you

I was sad, falling on loop 

and it kept not being right 

leaving fights to splash 

water on my face

trying to cool towards 

laughing, posing 

secrets barely

back

I'LL NAME YOU ONA

For my great great aunt Leona, 

who came from Russia after her mother

kicked her out for losing her virginity, who lived to be 100,

single in NYC with two plastic hips.

who didn't really care for children,

but called me cookie.

PINCHING

 

what is within you

and what is entirely 

the upside down cake

of the first few drafts

of the promise?

pineapple baked to

a devil’s syrup

~ wicked good ~

bring the hammer down 

little maniac dance to 

make friends laugh

at least link up 

everything keeps on

toilet paper trail

when the wind bursts through

poem written about futures

already so irrelevant 

my boot in mud

the grey sky and road

I like to drink from a clear cup

to remember what i’m drinking

VOWS (I CHOOSE)

the sharp spring feeling on the porch

the plush interiors

the deep crook beneath my back ribs 

where you imagined a stone hand 

cupped to hold the weight

of lifelong bracing 

this old rejected love

its place in the cupboard behind the jumbo bags 

of basmati and faded coral lentils 

the fig leaf electric pale

the generous jack in the box memories

that rainstorm at sleep

you powerless in my undershirt

pine cones in my skirt pockets

skipping stairs with tiny stride 

in the almost danger twilight

and the birds from my window fighting

flashing their rosy underwings

the heaping plate

the sweet and bitter medicines

the never clean of life but also 

the will to straighten, sweep

let some sweet air 

through

IN GOD WE

trust + fear water

trust + fear dirt 

trust crushes, stars, songs

don’t trust the store 

trust the oven more than the stove

trust light + scent

dreams less

don’t trust the internet

or even many books

trust babies, small birds, all bugs

trust + fear cats

don’t trust cars

trust some celebrities

trust mystical technologies

trust some of my ancestors

(but don’t know which ones)

trust + fear forests

trust kitchen tables

don’t trust my sewing machine

trust thread + dark spaces

trust them to  transform 

trust smoke

trust + fear fire

trust my neck + below

don’t trust my neck + above

don’t trust teeth, or skin

trust temperature, hair

trust old things

trust new less 

trust + don’t trust sleep

trust + fear trust

trust dying

trust trying

UMPTEENTH BECOMING

i miss those days just yesterday when I would pile my hair 

those days when i would stuff wet wild petals into my jacket, 

listen to experts explain survival, take photos of the gen z graffiti 

the beach house was an autonomous zone, the playground a crumbling 

dynasty. the man played drum on the dock  to the ghosts in the taped off

bathroom behind him. i miss my arms in the generous light learning to move,

the melted candles in my backpack, the bed sheet covered in horses, 

the tarot full of grass and sand, the jars of diluted experiment that i’d

wrap so gently in a sweatshirt hood before setting out into the known

unknown to float above the roots and worms

below the city moon. 

 

THE STAKES ARE MYSELF

in extension

something always wobbles

so easy for me to stamp

your happiness over mine

assume its shape is simple

imagine I can dust a space

for it to settle 

is there even room? 

a way to find yourself

finding yourself

when someone else

is there already?

no   no   no 

sun and frost wait

for no woman 

can’t afford to lose 

the midnight canopy

of this new footing

it might be real

the knocking, coaxing

combing out

gentle approach to

inhale the winter honeysuckle

in a cold wet blink

 

BEFORE MY PARENTS WERE BORN

Before my parents were born

I had braids coiled in tight spirals 

kept flat in a mother of pearl 

tear shaped case 

before my parents were born

my muscle tissue was moss

it held so much water

my features were flecks 

carved out of clay, gold sand 

caught in the cuts

before my parents were born

my face was a circle 

palm pivoted to clear

from a flour covered table 

before my parents were born 

this face rose up in steam

all blood not yet contained 

pulsing wrists and round hard knots

of working people’s shoulders

white light  parting violet clouds 

above humble traffic 

2 eyes cutting through time

soft white yellow pink

dandelion in a swamp

teeming with life

NONNIE'S DESK

pale golden cradle 

here at the helm

drawers that smell like

letters

imagine your mother 

lived there

that that was all you had of her

letters in a drawer

the last time I saw Nonnie 

she reached for me

crooked fingers with the loose

moisturized skin

heavy rings of opulence 

she had scrambled eggs hanging 

from her face

her chin hairs scared me

we felt sick and sad 

against her shaking need

Nonnie I use your desk so well

I get it kind of dirty

with all this coffee and glue

but I really really

use it

well

AS IF THE RUDDY CREASES ARE PROOF

the death on the news 

the death from the breech 

the death of the kind of person 

who looks so robust for having resisted 

dying this long

the death of time 

of reading against a tree

where will she go 

wild heart widow

to which never quite understanding 

arms of which deep friend 

in which beautiful place?

death of the cook who has 

survived this far

death of cleaning up, 

of going home after the shift

to have  a beer on the stoop

death of the death bed 

we might lurch or revolt but isn't it right 

to let dignity live, at least?

call your sisters to wrap up your life 

air tight like the cellophane of 

off limits leftovers

the reporter cries into 

her parka collar

she’s trying to tell us

to pick up the sticks from where 

last night’s storm strew them 

no accident, no rageful error, 

wire went down and lit 

the douglas fir on fire

are your neighbors watching? 

do they care enough to knock your door 

in the night? 

yes, in this little grove,

we put on pants

and watched the firemen spray feebly

once the flame had other

plans

YOU REMIND ME OF YOUR GRANDMOTHER

tell me I remind you of my grandmother

and I’ll tell you you remind me 

of yours

trying on a dress, hovering in that 

unknowing

because you were young 

and  each day 

compared 

because you learned code, 

butterflied the curtains of 

a waterfall 

sometimes in an apron, arms locked

sometimes into hooks

of other women 

when you are so disappointed

you cry hot lizard tears 

you remind me of her

when you want to rest but cannot

you remind me of her 

when you resent the grey sky 

you remind me her

when you screech

at any hint 

cracked sunset 

just beyond the spit

you remind me 

of her

SHAME

What of this is mine

little cage with yellow energy 

light crumble, too cooked

dancing like static, collapsed 

spine is it mine

deep dive research slouch 

into  aquarium night 

after hours seething to solve

ailments of everything

panic like being blindfolded

care rises like bile

can’t alchemize

what am I if not 

immediately useful?

all the etiquette du jour

of asks and offers

waiting to wake up

confirmed by the grain 

of the silt