your toothbrush is balanced so the bristles aren’t
i said “a long time” and you said “forever”
nd then i saw a white freckle on my fingernail.
i’m in it, lying my pillow sideways,
buying pretzels, everything with the music
and one time cousin john ran into me during touch
football and i scraped his elbow open and
blood was gushing everywhere and it got on my arm,
not the way snow does,
but the way you do.
and waiting you coming home is like
will you be happy of me or will
you be a hundred and three years old?
Hey i want to know the ways you feel
but you don’t need to tell me about me because
(sup) i can tell; you’re readable -
like an oscar winner, i think we all know
i can make something out of nothing because
of how you acted yesterday. yes ma’am
you’re predictable but only when in season;
i know what’s up.
it’s something about my two pomegranates in the fridge,
or the way it doesn’t come to you,
or the way i’m afraid of pills taking over what the weather already controls.
next year, where will home be?
one think and a million thoughts rush through my head,
my hallway closet turned inside out,
i turned the pomegranate inverted
and they’re all soft; why am i hungry?
17 degrees isn’t enough for me and
if nobody knows me, how will i get work?
if i don’t do work, how will i get work?
lord, do i pray.
i can’t write like antonia, tongues rolling,
pictures as a moving magnifying glass;
nothing like dance except for bodies, she will make you sit still for hours
and you agree.
sarah and i diverged from the same tree,
her words fancier than mine but
mostly more meaningful;
she eats the same food as me but sautees while i bake,
dices while i shred,
and if i have a daughter i want her to write more like sarah and less like me.
i want to make things happen like antonia does,
and she has the coolest middle name of all of us and i think
white tea is water
and red tea is a thing
but sarah doesn’t let a tuesday night go by
without tea and trash bags (thank god she remembered)
i think that jade is happier than george emelio
and frasier III is a man so we only let him stay
for a month.
on fast days, i hope gabs skips the door and
i think we should decorate the door? i love you too.
if this were a boat, we’d all be on it
'cause i'm glad our wallets share the same days,
our brains move different ways,
and our kitchen choreography hasn’t changed.
wait; read me (unofficially); my cold knees are for you
and your penis. but also i like to get dressed naked &
i know that you know that i know exactly what i’m doing - is that
you’re not new but my underwear is.
is it enough to just fall back?
a sigh will bother me for days,
taking over what i didn’t know was A Way To Survive -
for cereals, this season is hard
and she said “it’s a tough time of the year”
and i said “cause i go from building to building”
and she said “that’s not what i mean” and walked away.
if you tell me what she means, i think i’ll understand your sighs
Or something -
my brain will stop racing faster than my toes.
i love you past california,
colder than january bike rides and
taller than el cap. the time
it took for me to get used to me next to you
meant forgetting arms and legs and giving space,
the warmest thing between bodies -
and i’m not crazy and you’re not crazy and right now
i want to sleep on the side of a mountain with you,
use my best pen on you,
work hard, paint again, stand my height,
because i’ll always stand up tall next to you.
i say i write a poem a day but
my eye for collages is too cocky to be clean;
why do we have to go back to philadelphia?
stakes in eggs, cheese, gigs and grades,
i want to go higher like the mountains or i don’t
understand what’s going on: a detatchment,
huh? in myself, with myself, realizing that far away
is what i need to turn it on
but pacific time is rough on my eyes and
mountains are for climbers - i have the shoes
honey this is weird like the lighting in my church bathroom;
up from below i know your stories and mine are
broken testimonials with gaps like trolley tracks
just big enough to get stuck in between, but
learning happens in spirals and busses take highways,
and miss becky said that life is like a sawtooth mountain ridge
so i think i’ll stay with jesus
i don’t want to see you today,
not because sad is sad, but because
i’ve never been to paris and you’re spoiling it.