We don’t look down on
each other here. This one forced this one willing, this one forced by force, this one forced by circumstances, this one forced
and not knowing it, thinking that she,
in her non-stripper shoes, in control of the chess board, receiving presents is above it.
We all cry into the same
I trace your ribs
In cerulean ink Dewdrops of blue On the skin A connect-the-dots That somehow Resembles a unicorn In calligraphy lines A unicorn with the stripes Of your bones A child of myth And the Serengeti A mythical zebra with a horn
They must have had unicorns
In the Serengeti too And your ribs And my ink Must have been What their pelts looked like On the walls of mythical hunters
If they had pottery
In the mythical Serengeti And this cerulean ink Would stick I would trace your ribs On the pottery too While you are sleeping The rise and fall of your abdomen With your sacred breath The reason the lines would be blurred Not my tears, my love Not my tears
My own soul, these days,
Dry but mostly cling, needs a little static release, needs a sacheted drawer to sleep in.
Rebellion in a thousand silver
Candy wrappers thrown on the floor
Each one reflects a side of my face
My face gets bigger
The mirror must also get bigger
So say the lying mirror wrappers
And once you lose the weight
If you do ever
You will have hours of free time
To focus on everything else you
Hate about your body. The algorithm
Has products for those things too.
Where we gassed and gabbed
we ground our cigarettes out
on the concrete window ledge
in front of the bustling store—
in front of our managers, what
kind of fuck did we give? Our
feet and backs were killing us and
somebody pissed in the fitting room
again. Someone left a dirty diaper
open in a shopping cart. Literal
shit. You customers deserved
every dirty thing we said.
I asked him why the gods expressed
their flowering through rape myths
He looked at me with one dark
eye and said, “I don’t know
how you want me
to answer this question.”
My pharmacist’s assistant boyfriend
gained weight. It brings us closer as our fingers touch over the Hydrocodone and our wrinkles show and our noses shine under the fluorescent lights.
I say in a low voice
“You know they’re for my mother.”
He leans forward and says
so gently “I know. I remember you.”
I tell him they’re for my mother every time
to prompt his sweet nothing. I am unashamed. I flounce out of the pharmacy with my narcotics swinging my hips.
Morning and evening news there
seems always to be one of us getting murdered by our
mate. And then the news moves
on to talk chirpily about the latest on what will make us all thin.
The thinner we are
the more easily tossed.
Unrequited lover of the light
Longing for west and east facing Curtain-less windows wide open
But built to be shy of the light
Take it all in unrestricted Get sick from it
My skin cancers
I faint My iris-less eyes Twitch in pain
God comforted me once
He said, “Perhaps the light Is maladapted—not you Nor your love of it.”