I’ve become obsessed with the idea of a meadow, a meadow I am not in.
Cliffs, skirted / by smoke-laced air / wrung from blinds, eclipse // faint sighs dripping / down a fence-line’s aura.
Next door, mannequins pose / in lace chemises, faces anonymous, / feet helplessly arched—an uncomplicated / argument on this Sunday morning, grey / as mist itself and sodden with desire
according to my therapist, is my body’s / way of saying I’m a gazelle, head bent / to long grass, eating but heeding the puma / who’s tracking me, so I often stop, raise my / face & wait, …
Everything / is for sale. A blue-eyed boy / knocks his head against my hip, / reaches for the Styrofoam form / I hold in my hand. A halo or a hat, / I say and put it on his head, / watch it fall …
How long will I last before ruining this? / Escaping the heat that teethes from your chest / like barbed wire with little dogs in it. / Mess of your face cracked from sweat.
Long before Tara met Eggs, she shelled out her funds / to get spat on in the woods, fed ipecac, and peyote. / From her perspective, the way out of cessation and substance / is through, so when the …
It begins with a host (an immigration) of spirits clobbering / intestines. Think: “Longing as attention seeking,” or “attention / people, we are starting the show.” I will pay in tennis …
The Adriatic Highway, a ligament that holds the tectonic states together / A transparent field of magnetic vessels swaddling a crumbling desert / nosing the star-map a clan of deer migrate West / …
Today I’m learning satin’s splendor, a tight ribbon-wristed free- / Dom orbiting my pulse. What is it that you want, love? To be tied / Is a [hypo]thesis on trust: not if pain should find me, but …
How to enter my own waking so that I might feel alive. I often want / to lay down in the snow now. To be a little numb, at first, / as I’ve been since I gave birth & my bones became trestles / …
i am hair and beard, / tea and rage i am in this world / sadness, diffidence, selfishness i am / still in this world. / minus two, twenty-seven / why doesn’t the world resemble me
something remains of our being / braided flesh and muscle / or we’re chilled / bags for bone.
a man covers his face with a rag / on video capture at five in the afternoon, / a woman cuts a round into a saguaro / on video capture at five in the afternoon, / a girl twists her ankle on a rock / …
The agent does not call an ambulance. / The agent does not wake the sleeping mother. // The agent does not file a report. The agent’s code reads: / No report is required unless a domestic threat is …
With the swivel of a controller / an agent in a room of laced / concrete blocks is haunted / by bovine hitting their bulk // against steel bollards.
Lately I fear someone’s combing my brain / when all kinds of thoughts stretch in one direction.
I sing my blue sun. Sun as vast as all the coupled stars. Sun that dances the polka until the body bursts in pieces. Sun out of time. And of the dawn unblotched by drunkenness. Sun of all hopes. Sun …
When you enter a room out of need, they are all / the same: the field an antechamber, the kitchen / a narrow sky where you peel the carrots in long, / thoughtful strokes—stem to taproot—just as …
Time is elastic: / either it’s 1994, or it’s 1980, / or it was just last night, / it makes no difference: someone slips out / the back screen porch / of their parents’ home / for the last time, …