Expertise

I have already

ruined
our relationship
a dozen times,
preemptively,
internally,
and it has not even
yet begun

(perhaps this poem
will make sure it
doesn’t).

This is what I do best.

The drinking, the
smoking and filling up
my mouth with words I can’t say
I even care to say,
really.

Fold along the dotted line.

Step one is easy.
It’s the jump to page two
you have to look out for.

Your sentimentality and the
curvature of your nose
make you predisposed to
love.
I am predisposed to
something else altogether.

On A Saturday Afternoon

You will look in the mirror and you will not recognize the face you see.

Too square around the jaw,
too long the nose,
too small the lips.
Lips that purse like rose petals,
and you had thought them lilies.
You will see your hair as brassy, something metallic
and hard and quite unlike the sunset.
You will observe the veins in your hands.
They will be green,
and foreign.

You will resist.
There will be men,
and they will love you,
and you will scrutinize them.
You will forget their faces until you are with them again.
They will become shadows.

The yellow of leaves will glare
and transform, reminding you of a dream.
And you will not be able to separate the dream from
the leaves.
The dream will seep into your eyes
and it will become the only thing you see.
Branches will become fingers.
You will have memories of things that did
not happen.
You will be sleepwalking. 

And all the while,
they will talk to you.
They will tell you to rewrite your story.
From somewhere far away and misted,
they will say that you could turn the pages.
If only you really wanted to.
If only you wanted to badly enough.
If only.
They will tell you to write.
They will tell you you are wrong.
And you will believe them.
And you will not wake up.
And you will not wake up.
And you will not wake up.

Glasses

I see the way you look at me

and I cannot see how you look at me
all at the same time.

You wear a mask, but
I think you take it off when we are
alone, but
it is hard to be sure.

Because we are always alone.

When we stand on street corners,
you make us alone.
You make us wild and intimate.

I bled this morning, you know.
And I could swear I found
a piece of your fabric stitched into my stockings
and a piece of your song in my stomach
cramps.

It is hard to tell.

So tell
me what I look like
through those thick frames, and
whether you must wear them
all the time.

53.

dirty hair against my
shoulders, and I am dancing
naked in the bathroom
shower water running

I have spent all morning
reading someone else's
words, and I am ready to
bathe in echoes of you
of you of you of you

it is not about the sex.
the pair of legs with which
I walk down your spine
are tired, but
they do their best.

it is about the touch
the feel of
your door as it closes
and the smile across my
ragged teeth

I hear a swelling sound
an approximation of you
and the things I am afraid of
and the things we could learn

After

You have left yourself hanging

inside me, like so many little
flags clothes-pinned along a line
that runs from head
to heart. A message, letter
by letter, one on each shred
of fabric, that spells
the blue of your eyes
(and my reflection when you pulled
me out of me), has spread
a few inky fingers
which turned into
a sparrow.
It sprouts feathers
and nestles
underneath my spine
to take a nap. Now, I
must confess I
cannot say for how long
it will sleep. I can only
hope
its dreams are sweet
and I am hospitable
and perhaps
it will decide
to stay.