You Got Where You Were Going
by Aimee Wai

You asked me earlier, is this all there is? I don’t know. I want for something deeply too—like it’s something physical. I keep finding myself

walking into rooms. The way you do when you need something from it. But when I arrive, I can’t remember why I’m there or what I needed. So, I turn around

and go back to where I started. Sometimes it helps and other times it doesn’t. Either way, I’m going back and forth and wearing down the carpet. I can’t be sure

what’s distracting me—the lighting in the space or the blankness of my intentions. All I know is I’m leaving empty-handed

or holding things I didn’t come for. I don’t remember what I need, I don’t remember anything. I know

I don’t want to leave the house without it. Please, don’t let me leave the house without it.

Night Rain
by Todd Dillard

Like the first gods 
emerging from the surf
the dogwoods shed 
droplets of light.

And the puddles—they're silver 
keys on the clarinet of our street.

Why should we close the windows
the way we close our minds
to thoughts of death. 

Let this little dark, 
this humble wet 
shiver into our room. 

Without silence 
there is no music. 

Let the silence 
come. 

Infanticide in Foxes
by Tom Snarsky

Bye heart,
old ticking

thing. Pond
overflow

runs behind
the trees, naked

as the day
they were

taken for
born. A cub,

handled too
roughly &

carried by
his spine, dies

+ is buried
under wool

tangles, to be
dug up again

in a few hours
for food (the 4

weeks before
that

spent
below ground,
a little
Gethsemane

of learning
to see).

The good
isn’t something

we can trust
or know,

stress of the
first-time

mother,
hiding

in a barn
from snow

diario verano | chronicle 
by Jonathan Chan

          with compliments to Spencer Reece

30th May 2025 

Lorca, i have forgotten how the unending 
sun and sprawling hills make soft
an ivory-hard head and heart, 
the sweltering embrace of summer 
in full, unrelenting brightness.
palm trees line the road to the 
beach, vacationers in floating 
hotels on the sea beyond the castle. 
the fields and farmlands roll by,
vast acreage and the neatness,
the nearness of symmetric olive groves.
the tracks and the trains shake,
snaking across the mountainside. 
the filter of sun is captured 
in the expanding aperture of film. 
Lorca, in this delicious, enveloping heat 
i remembered the eternal summer 
of a spotted mind. 

‍

31st May 2025

Lorca, i awoke with a tightness
in my calves and tremor in my spine.
i have been thinking of how visitation 
follows a miracle. the sensuous clime
makes light of the shame of loose 
bodies and limbs. sweat is perfectly
adequate and natural to the days 
of protracted sunset. cobblestones
make for wobbling steps and curved
knees. i know not where the heat
recedes in the shade. orange trees
stand as the city winds around them.
today, vaqueros sat mounted 
on the backs of their horses, lining
the roads drinking coffee in grey 
and white suits. dancers sashayed
down the streets in flamenco dresses
of black, red, and blue. the light sapped
the vapours from our breath over plates
of jamón, berenjenas, and camarones.
the afternoon stretched into the evening.
tomorrow, Lorca, we celebrate a sacred 
mystery, how languorous, Lorca, 
these hours. 

‍

1st June 2025 

for Crystal y Karim 
Lorca, how the particles dance 
in the morning light! the clamour of bells
interrupts a momentary slip of devotion.
i lather my body with lotions and oils. 
my throat is parched. the fountains
and rivers have been flowing all summer. 
the plaza is once again bathed 
in light. each of us desires our elusive 
architecture of happiness. at the foot
of the fortress, joy expressed itself
in rhythms and in vows. Lorca, how 
regal the groom and bride! 
how happy we all were from 
across the world, toasting and 
cheering and sharing stories of 
train rides and flight times, theory and 
research, activism and withdrawal, 
movement and arrival. i felt again 
a pang for New York. we danced 
into the pulsating sweetness 
of the evening. oh, how the 
taps kept flowing. Lorca, she 
spoke of how they have made 
from your poetry 
a song.

‍

2nd June 2025

Lorca, my head is spinning. 
up the incline, past the burning
building, the long light brings 
a smooth tan. see the people revelling 
in splendour, ornate gardens, 
grand archways, the etchings and carvings 
that speak the hundred unknowable 
names of god. the grandeur of divinity 
impressed in the towers, walls, 
and fixtures. beyond the monuments 
are the neighbourhoods and their
narrow roads, the medieval 
chapels and cathedrals, the 
mountains capped with snow,
and the burning building, dark
smoke slowly thinning into
white. the winds stir clouds
of dust on the roads. the
sultans were vanquished 
and their followers converted
and expelled. preserving 
this edifice is a cruel,
beautiful, and triumphal 
act. Lorca, it seems more
and more desire only 
to forget.  

‍

3rd June 2025

Lorca, how the pace and pulse have 
quickened! in Madrid, the roads are
wide and the pavements are full. i met
this city in Spencer’s poems. i meet it
again in spirit and in breath. 
the voices and cars rumble 
through the night. the people spill 
into the boulevards and plazas. 
Valle-Inclán stands in the mural
of the churro store. how he railed
against tyrants and dictators 
in coffeehouses. the flamenco 
dancers stomp with grace and 
power, the sweep of shawls 
and dresses under the spotlight. 
the band of six sits behind, voices
rising like a call to prayer. it is late,
Lorca, and we are tired, 
yet the city continues to vibrate.

‍

4th June 2025 

Lorca, i remembered today 
how art activates a memory|
of suffering. bombardment
gives way to the indiscipline
of surrealism. the shapes
warp, bend, and melt into
the ambient air. the inner
reality transmuted from text
to image. the image poetic.
Dali learns the eschatology
of the sea urchin. Buñuel 
encodes behaviours of 
illogic. Breton layers
montage and collage and 
manipulation. see how the 
children watch Guernica 
like television, legs crossed
on the museum’s marble 
floor. Picasso dreamt
only of a monstrous pain. 
the weeping mother and her
contortions. the child-corpse
stained in tears. the image
is disorientation, is dislocation
is discombobulation. the tongue
of the horse is like a spear. 
the marrow of the forearm
is visible on the soil. the sword
is shattered. the spectre of a
woman wails. the bulb is the
bomb. the bull runs amok. 
the flesh shall wither to 
rocks and to bones. these 
captors and conquerors.
these courtesans and 
revellers. these spies and
counterrevolutionaries. they 
took the best spoils of
the centuries to rend their
towns and cities. the heirs to
El Greco, Velázquez, y
Goya. oh master, oh
propagandist. oh portrait,
oh buffoon. oh court oddity,
oh white divinity. oh anatomy, 
oh mystery. oh monastic, 
oh brilliant delivery. oh
artist, oh royal child. 
oh ravaged liver, oh
strained body. i see 
the horrors that have 
resided within. i see 
how the new world 
returns to the old. 
i see Saturn’s bite 
of each child, bloody,
in this palace, this
panopticon of portraits, 
the heraldry of sword 
and pen, the hands 
bearing silver goblets, 
the images remade in
punished climes.
the imaginary bell is tolling. 
Madrid has yet been kind. 
Lorca, it is time. 
Lorca, i am leaving late. 
Lorca, how i must return 
to wait.

My elephant ear is yellowing again 
by xochi quetzali cartland

Not pale yellow. Not subtle or quiet,
not the Home Depot paint colors
labeled “vanilla ice cream” or
“belgian waffle,” how they’re delicious
to the eyes. She’s Ms. Frizzle’s magic bus.
She’s the Morton salt girl, sauntering along,
refusing to succumb to the natural disaster
of human tears. In her center, she has a lattice
of deep purple veins, proud to be alive. Unafraid
of her snake plant neighbors, her riot of purple and
yellow in this pale green place. How she makes it all
look easy, like gold crowns and heliotrope robes,
not day old bruises, the kind I get when the ache
runs ocean deep. Like a good parent, I worry for
nothing. Come spring she’ll unfurl, her heart
spilling open in the span of a single day.
Hope, after all, is a gift economy. Soon,
there will be a ladder out of this grief.

Sons of God
by Zachary Forrest y Salazar

I live, like most sons do,
         for my father’s approval—
unseen. I live in grass,
         green beneath the boot.

                                       ✭

My father asks to meet him in the desert.
And I find him, in human cosplay—dying
from hunger. I tell him—make some food.
Do the whole “bread from the rocks” trick.
‍He refuses, says—Carry me. Show me the
world before I die. I ask if he can fix the
world—the hunger, violence, and greed?
He laughs, like I’m a child, and tells me
I must take him to Jerusalem. I lay him
down on the temple steps. I ask for help
and look for his friends. When I return,
he is gone. Later, I find him again, calling
me a devil to all his companions. One of
them writing—while snickering to himself.

                                       ✭

In a beginning, the spirit of God moved over the waters,
         moved over the formless deep.

And then, a different beginning, the Missouri Ozarks
         and me born into them. My father,  

who told stories of how he walked an animal trapline 
         for squirrels and rabbits.
What’s a trapline? I asked. In a beginning was the Word
         and the Word was with God.

My father's word to me, constantly, said I was lucky
         to have a roof over my head.

A trapline is a series of traps set to capture animals
         moving through the woods.
I consider my own spirit, once moving free through
         the universe, taken prisoner.
‍

                                       ✭


For my father’s approval
         I live, like most sons do—
unseen. Still green, in
         grass beneath the brute.
‍

         

                                       ✭

The way my father told it, some railroad tie gangs had machines,
but not his. His was backbreaking work, pulling and driving spikes.

He told me he missed once, the hammer bouncing off the rail back
into his face. New years of January ’79, my father was called to

Kansas City to sweep switches. He met the train at the railroad
yards in Springfield, sleeping all night in the caboose, no heat.

Sweeping switches means you remove debris and snow and frost
from the handle, ensuring the switch can move in both directions—

engaging the locking mechanism. He used a broom, with an end
that chiseled ice, for eight hours in the frigid cold. My father tells

me that I have it easy, considering all the nights he spent like that.
And I try to imagine him asleep on a Greyhound bus, riding back

home the night of my birth. Imagine him just twenty-one and soon
to be a father of a son who would never, not really, appreciate him.

‍

                                       ✭

Little traumas passed on to me,
multiplied by a good measure,
pressed down and shaken together,
running over and free.

I wasn’t allowed to disagree.
He lived above the refrigerator,
an ever present neighbor—
this paddle, this Mr. Woody.

My father liked to threaten me
with the name he carved by router.
Was I a child or a coward
when I couldn’t find words to speak?

With each beating came a hug,
abuse dressed up to look like love.

         

                                       ✭

Unseen—I live in grass,
         for my father’s approval.
I live, like most sons do—
         neck beneath the boot.

         

                                       ✭

O Light Bringer, did Father God get it wrong
when He cast you down to earth? Morning Dawn,

when He said your sin was Pride, named you Satan,
when He gave angels with you slurs for names,

when He stripped them of light to give them darkness,
when Father called them demon; Lucifer, confess—

are the old stories true? You wanted Him to pay
for it? Refused to bow the knee? Chose to take

the time towards perfecting our demise?
Did you invent money? Incite wars? Invite

the billionaire? Demon of Whatever-
Thing-We-Hate-About-Someone-Else was clever.

Tell me, what is the greatest trick you pulled?
I wonder if it's the trick I was told.

         

                                       ✭


My father used to smile when I was eighteen, when I struck
the walnut wood with maul and axe, everything I had to give,

until finally surrendering for him to finish it. I remember once,
we split some hedge wood, and several bats broke out, flying

from the yellow grains into the yellow sun. My father—he loved
the heat of hedge wood from a stove, how hot it burned, loved

fried eggs and leather boots and his children—quiet. It was hard
to know what we could say and not say without risking the switch.

What we could believe or not believe, what to ask and not ask.
When I could no longer pretend I hadn’t changed from the son

he knew, I drove my Chevy truck down the gravel road until I hit
asphalt. And I kept driving—further east, past our old church—

past the state line. Like some black bat escaping after the world
split open, and I was free, for the first time, to pursue the sun.

‍

                                       ✭


Crawling from the brute,
         I live unseen—  
like most sons do. Hiding
         in trees and fruit.

‍

                                       ✭

Luci says skip Arkansas. Meaning, skip our father
who lives there—and not in Heaven. Meaning, we
don’t need to sit for hours in his house slash barn,
talking about nothing. Don’t need to watch him pet

his dog, or pretend to care when he asks about work
or the weather. Don’t need to let him slip into other
kinds of talk, kinds that light us on fire like the Santa
Ynez mountains in Santa Barbara drought. I don’t

believe it’s climate change, he says, it’s punishment—
for all the laws tolerating homosexuals. And what
will either of us say in response? The both of us
cowards, so—nothing. Luci says skip it. Skip him.

Skip talk about church and sin and what the Bible says.
Meaning, this is the best possible way we can love him—
like the switches he made us choose and cut ourselves
before hitting us—it’s the only way he’s gonna learn.

‍

                                       ✭


O Mephistopheles, do you hear from Him? Does He ever call
and ask about your life? I've been estranged since the fall

from grace with my own father. O Noctifer, my dejected friend,
I’m sorry you feel so alone. Remember on the beach when

we saw the sunset and you whispered Lucifer? You cried—
said the world calls you Satan now. I recall the tide's

slow crash against the beach and how I held you fiercely.
My father also never calls. And the truth is, I think—

Luci, he doesn't give me any thought. He won't set foot
in California, tells me I'm lost and sin covers me like soot.

We're not so different, you and I. My dear Mephistopheles,
the burden of our father's expectations seem the same. Seem

unable to change their ways. I thought—after Job, the games
were finally done. I had hoped—I'm not sure hope remains.

         

                                       ✭


In grass, among roots,
         I live, unseen.
Most sons do—quiet,
         small, and mute.

         

                                       ✭

I will not say I speak for God. My words are—my words.
         My heart—my heart.
I look like my father, more as I get older, but I am not
         my father. My words—
are my words and not God’s. When I was young, my heart
         knew that some
words were dangerous—words curious about God’s Word
         and who wrote it,
questioning why it made no sense. God’s words, inerrant,
         said my father—
and my father spoke for God. My father says God loves
         every life but—hates sin.
God’s words, he says. Or my father’s heart. My heart—
         unlike my father’s—
declares his words blasphemous. My words—just my words,
         unspoken for God,
but spoken for my heart—given to me, by God. My heart—
         at last, unafraid to speak.

‍

                                       ✭

Last night, I dreamed about my father—
dreams of the Arkansas horizon, orange

sun cresting over the Ozark ridge, color
drawn on everything. Soft dew glistens

atop fields of grass. My father sitting alone
with his dog, reading his worn out Bible.

It felt like the present. I could smell the air.
He asks me, in the dream, if I know God,

if God is still in my heart. And I tell him no.
I say the truth knowing it’s just a dream.

The Lord God Bird resurrected, I hear
their song in the trees. It’s a dream, so

it can be any song I want. It’s a dream, so
my father says ok—and reaches—to kiss me.

Tim Seibles
RUNAWAY BLUES VILLANELLE

Maybe we could all just fly away
Time will say nothing, but I told you so
Not sure what else time can really say

Not sure I wanna write this anyway
Woke up feelin like   I jus don’ know
Maybe we could all just walk away

No use runnin hot and yellin all damn day
Mom told me No one monkey stops the show
Guess she didn’t know what else to say

Maybe I should put my mind on layaway
Can’t turn it off—can’t tell where it’ll go
Think I might just turn away

Summa y’all go to church and pray
I look at the sky—   I just don’ know
Maybe we should all just run away

Gotta try somethin, come what might may
When that goes wrong, they’ll shrug I told you so
Ain’t that some worthless shit to say

People worry ‘bout who’s straight, who’s gay:
The body’s the arrow, the heart’s the bow
Someday we’ll all just fly away

When I go, just let Omar Sosa play
Then rock’a my soul at a Funkadelic show

You give me half a chance, I’d get away
When you think about it, same thing time would say

TARA MESALIK MACMAHON
Ghazal of Faith

You make the meaning—Sartre faith.        
Live with the outcomes—Camus faith.

For the faithful, maybe test your fate. Gobble a tarantula,      
guzzle a piranha, ghazal a piñata—ayahuasca faith.              

Sometimes we masturbate, seduce faith. Religion, where men  
put their loneliness, their homes, Holmes—Oliver Wendell faith.

She calls it love, the ice cube slides. He calls it quits, the ice-cube sinks.
A hot stove, warm pan, ice-blue ice cube—melting faith.

A city of light spills across the water, field of bright coins,
field of bright corn. Flesh and all the glass candles—Rorschach faith.

Sometimes a sonata or soul, rhythm-and-roll, even poems. Such
musical notes plummet from God’s lap to you—Amadeus faith.

Here, impasto, violent swirls in violet hues. The effects
of light on a woman’s body, my body—Starry Night faith.

Into this life, we come with nothing, leave with nothing.
Love the things you love for what they are—Frost faith. And sleep.

MATTHEW NIENOW 
How to Love the Unfinished Dream

There it is again — that
little pop of possibility

sparking in my brain.
It’s an effervescent joy

I can map out fully
in my mind from blue-

prints to the manual.
I have all the tools

even & the know how.
O, what a bit of bare sky

& sun will do
to a winter mood.

It is the purest heaven —
& the only kind

I believe in: brief
& ending the very moment

awareness mounts
the stone staircase

of the mind. It was
good though, wasn’t it?

That little bite of bread
after so long without —

You survive the end of the world in Kayenta, AZ with your mother
by Kinsale Drake

in the Blue Coffee Pot. The waitress sets two tall plastic Coke cups
of water before you both. Today, everyone must be especially
generous to you.

All around: nalis with their tight tsiiyééls and jewels and long velvet skirts
that brush the floor. Your mother says that the turquoise

tear drops are a shield. Never take them off. The women smile
at their grandchildren. They don’t sit with any husbands. You’ve become

attuned again to their little song. Your mother says to you that a plate
of mutton will cure any ailment. You both eat with your hands. You could

have cried. Later, it’s back up to Monument Valley
where the rocks look like women, hushed together. KTNN buzzes:

I wanted to be your everything. The only station for miles. Rock formations
give nothing away. Not everything, you think. Your mother

tells you to use the grease left on your palms to heal your lips. You
smear your fingers across an eye instead. The other. The monuments flicker

and you hum a song about women with straight backs
and eyelashes strung pretty with rain, a song you heard most

while your grandmother still lived
and the roosters rampaged in her yard as she bent

over the fire with cardboard and a poker
and your mother smiled and swayed you on her hip,

looking off, off toward the mountain,
feeding you mutton with her hands.

Rose 
by Kathy Fagan 

The roses are sick but bud anyway on defoliated stems.
They won’t last long.
Only every other button needs to know,
I mean no one does,
as I am alone
and neither hot nor cold
with no corporeal desire except to live in peace.
Murders everywhere.
And though they bloom with abandon this spring 
the poppies are not a symbol because blood is not.
I am trying very hard not
to wish harm on those who profit from others’ losses
as if they held doctorates in money and still don’t know what blood costs. 
The roses were planted with fish heads, 
their eyes surprised by soil as it fell. I turned my eyes away
again and again. To classrooms, bedrooms, galleries, and bone rooms. 
The inscription above the skeleton reads:
I was once what you are and what I am you will also be.
The dead are not a symbol. The roses are not
because our lives are not.

DENISE DUHAMEL
Poem in Which My Speaker Is Bored by My Real Life

My speaker wants to make some big pronouncements, fly
with extended metaphors. She’s disgusted when I toss
the coffee grounds in the trash without even trying
to make an image. Don’t they look like loam,
the crushed beans once whole—yes, crushed and used,
the way I sometimes feel? My speaker wants to know
where the trash ultimately goes. Reminds me
about Thoreau—I can stand as remote from myself
as from another. I have long loved the way the poet
Ai’s name was pronounced “I,” but my speaker is bored—
I have written about this before. My speaker
wants me to be someone else in this poem—Dumbo
or Marilyn Monroe, or catapult back to my younger self,
a little girl wrapped in victimhood or a Superman’s cape
depending on the day. I tell my speaker the old joke
about the naive bride—First the aisle, then the altar.
Then her hymn—I’ll alter him. Hear the “I” in aisle? I ask.
But my speaker is unimpressed. Aye aye aye aye,
I am the Frito Bandito, I used to sing with my sister.
The first “aye” sounded like “I” and then
the next three sounded like they began with a “y.”
A Frito bandito robbed people of their chips
at gunpoint. He was a mascot of our youth. Back then,
we weren’t afraid of banditos or guns. They were just
cartoons. We weren’t outraged by any Mexican stereotypes
as we would be now. I could have never predicted
the gun violence so prevalent in my adulthood,
a recent mass shooting right on the beach
where I walk every day. A 15-year-old boy
who the medics thought was hit in the heart,
his left side torn open by bullets, lived. He had
a congenital condition that placed his heart
on the right side. Can there really be a feel good story
about a mass shooting? I think not. And yet
how giddy I was to hear this. I imagined
the shocked medic wondering at the magic
of this young man still breathing. Brig, a fiction student,
said I could use his image—the fluorescent light of lies.
He meant the ceilings of hospitals and the false promises
of enthusiastic doctors and nurses. He recently lost
his young wife. I, my mother. This boy will live, I told Brig.
This boy will live. The coffee bean unground, become whole
in reverse. This boy’s heart intact. I had walked
the same beach only hours early. I walk it almost every day,
my speaker wanting me to make big pronouncements—
today about violence, but most days about the dying sea.

JARRETT MOSELEY
Couples Therapy

I drive us out the front gate
of your neighborhood, past the stoplight
where, once, I missed
the light turning green
because I had leaned over
to kiss you on the cheek
and in that extra three seconds
a car barreled through the intersection
at speeds high enough to kill us,
and hold your hand
driving toward the generic office park
both of us taking turns
being silent for a year
the same streets and buildings turning
over in our heads as we move them
through us, radio on or off, doesn’t matter
now though mostly off
and in the parking lot we wait
in the Miami summer heat
I try to catch a lizard
scaling a thin dead tree
we take turns crying
for a year, on and off
occasionally holding
the other’s face we believe
if we keep a good grip
it will not disappear.

I made space for the loss by putting away so many others I’d lost count. Most of my friends knew this predicament well. I wasn’t alone in this. I was alone in this. A fairy godmother had told me to hold something back as a secret just for myself. As usual, I took it literally, choosing a locket with no photo inside. At first, I thought I’d fill the cardinal enameled trinket with something—a lock of hair, an image of my love. But the longer I left it empty the less likely it was I’d find just the right thing. I kept thinking, invisible tattoo, boat adrift, permanent roam.

Bathing at night, the hanged man watched me through a crack in the wall.
          Hunted me and touched himself. Just as the hoary bat feasts nocturnally

and tongues the plum of their lover’s vulva. Nothing is more judicious
          than cunnilingus — after yes. Only this was not that. Marooned by the

dark, a voice sang who’s there, stammering. She was no nightingale. Answering,
          the sound of Someone darting through brush, splintering. In the outhouse,

the water poured cold down my back, black cold as the roots of the
          cottonwood dig in the river. Pith of midsummer, even flame can shiver.

After, I could not sleep alone: a couplet of women curled on the floor
          by my bed. Coddled me like a puritan girl on the cloth of an old fever

and cough. As if being stalked can carve a child out of a woman. But I
          was no child. None of us could sleep. Leaving, they wrote me a letter

that said we will miss you. Which was to say, we hope he won’t come back.
          I have no such faith, I have no faith in men. When he came back, he came

dressed in the body of another man, shook off the rag of his skin in the
          bush, singed with a shame that cannot burn out. Under the malignity

of moonlight, dead men make young men tread. By the thorn I swore,
          scarlet in my heart: I sang to Death and Death sang the world to me.

Because the book you made
was not the sum of enough tears
but a bomb I want to be a bomb
so bad but I’m a grocery list instead
with 17 pounds on my bank account
do I have to have money for mascara
to be considered a monarch butterfly?
I promise I too have migrated across
the Great Lakes like the man you love
might migrate across your mouth
filling it with salt - and I love the taste of a man
but you’re not supposed to say it so I poured over
vinegar instead like I was in Hurt Locker
‍trying to cut the right wire trying to
stop the bomb the barrage the artillery the
metaphor and maybe the centre of the bomb
wasn’t shrapnel but a child alternatingly mistaken
for a boy and a girl who refuses to elaborate or
maybe there are bombs in the world that aren’t metaphors that fall on hospitals.

And here in the background hum of empire
I think I’m the bomb that I’m hot shit I’m the
bees fucking knees being fucked on my
knees and it’s all quite funny isn’t it - the tab on your
tongue becoming an alligator when you said woman
and meant something that gets shot out of a gun
and meant you and when you didn’t answer
a text for over a week my heart fluttered to you as a monarch
butterfly look mom I can repeat a metaphor and I cleaned your apartment
which was like after a bomb see mom the English degree paid off and I
tried to make you sleep jaw wired shut on six
pills of Concerta and your heart wasn’t
a butterfly but an engine with a missed oil change shitting blood shitting poetry and
slurring over your triple vodka lemonade that
helped you sleep you said if you want to get into this you’ve
got to let go of definition and I did
three years later somewhere in North Greenwich I came
looking at the London skyline and I finally realised the bomb
wasn’t a heavy thing lodged in your diaphragm
but this here skyline, unfolding

Our phones on the tiny table
like decks of cards
are silenced, but they light, they shake.
We know that they’re thinking.

Billions of years
none of the cosmic issues have been settled.
Water’s still seeking its own level,
the planet needs a few more eons
to figure out what it all comes down to.
On the smaller scale, it’s hesitantly spring,
and the server says No problem, back in a few.

Where we want to be is exactly
where we are,
but there's no way to get there
from here.

Said—All dead things soon. Said—We hair.
Tonight, I have more than I ever had
and still feel loss. Tonight, we blind taste-tested
vodka—France won. The cheapest of the three. 
The Oujia board said—Belief autumn. Said—
Afternoon fairy of foxglove. Said—Forgive magnanimously. 
‍I asked—monogamously? Another article
on how to look younger, how to have the body
of a twenty-something. My brain skinny-dips
in the ocean, has a hot girl summer without leaving
my skull. Magenta child. Otherworldly.
Keep your cigars out of my creativity.
The Ouija board says—Love us
as foolish gods. Says—Late summer fireflies.
‍My goddess, my godliness, we gave our power away.
If the voices in your head still speak to you, make them
show you who they are.

you have to forgive
the snow for its
waking. ideally, you
occupy a land. you
are accommodated. you
are private school
broad, shouldering  
the quiver of a pollen
weighty spring. instead, you
occupy an apartment. you
are a tenant. you
are watching hived frost
slip through unsealed
window slits and sting
your sore thumbs blue. you
are fused to the mud, you
are dodging silverfish.
you are too broke
to buy space heater.

                     this is not the south you were promised:
                     marigolds, big and batwinged
                     off of yam-sun, blushing your neighbors’
                     lawns, taro ichor leaking from your nostrils.
                     it is january seventh, radnor lake grey
                     and heronless. snow webs white the orchid
                     lounge awnings. wind delivers a cold
                     that coagulates your blood to tubers.
                     the city, saltless, shuts down.
                     at the start of the week you bronzed
                     your wrists on bike handles,
                     thanked for shade the copses of trees
                     that keep the barred owls company.
                     you unnotched yourself from the palm
                     long icicles, the rockies’ paleozoic udders
                     that nourished you, in the name of sun
                     gorged skies. but the weather erupts,
                     unravels, unfurls the cartilage keeping
                     magnolia bloom bonded
                     to otherwise unimpressive bark.
                     This will be the most docile winter
                     of the rest of your life.
                     Soon, your grease sweet scalp
                     will gulp a warm hibernal rain.

I am okay
at writing poems about love,
but bad at actually loving.
Okay at walking through the rain
and thinking that each drop upon my skin
is like a tiny burst of love
but bad at actually loving.
Okay at basketball
and knowing the names of trees,
but bad at actually loving.
Okay at offering
advice to my friends about love,
or preparing a meal with love,
or being aware of the fact
that I am being bad at love
while I am being bad at it,
but bad at actually loving.
Okay at mythologizing and regurgitating
memories of love years later,
but bad at actually loving.
Okay at loving you
when you’ve fallen asleep in my arms
and I run my fingers through your hair
and feel your steady,
peaceful breathing
and my one job is to lie still
so as not to wake you.
Okay at loving you
in those narrow moments,
but I always wake you up
in the end by accident
by turning the pages of my book
or adjusting the pillow
or reaching over
to turn off the lamp—
and in the sphere of that silence
there is no greater crime
than disrupting your steady,
peaceful breathing. So I turn
to my attorney, who is a giant
praying mantis.
He explains the plea deal
the court of insects is offering:
one half of the rest
of whatever forever turns out to be.
Just a half, he says, nudging me.
In that moment, his expertise
is palpable. This
is a praying mantis
who has honed his knowledge and skill
through long, earnest hours of training.
He understands the legal process
and he is gazing at it calmly,
hoping I will be reasonable.
But what also
becomes terrifyingly palpable
is my realization that such expertise
can be so powerful and self-sustaining
it ceases to reflect reality.
I open my mouth
to explain myself,
but as I do my attorney
kisses me, and I am filled with green light.