first
I slip into pain
so it isn’t exposed

then
I snap expectations closed
(behind my chest
one-handed)

Struggle into too-tight empathy, belt it,

so it holds

arms up
and through
a

loose

content

caged by regret.


I tie love around my neck
for easy removal

shoes for walking

the person I love most

answering my 4 in the morning calls asking who was that poet you always used to quote
(Yevtushenko)
I’m so sorry
I had to know

Anabel,
You could murder twelve people
Tattoo your entire body,
Run away to China,
(or anywhere else you desire)
Have a record in each state,
Children on each continent
Drop out of school,
Take up prostitution

And I would still love you

more than anything
(or anyone)

in the entire world

My precious baby,
my baby-

You can’t understand
Until you have a child.


but I think I do

4:12 in the morning,

and you quote it
again,

For having ceased to love you I do not ask your pardon,
I ask to pardon me for having loved you once

Eight Old Birthday Balloons

I don’t think we’re nothing

at all

in my kitchen
counting sagging balloons
popping each shriveling mass
with the animalistic joy
of little kids
who just discovered
how
to

destroy

one, two, three,
the gnawing
four
lustful,
two hungry
jaws
five, six
to occupy
seven,

mouths too long,
eight

de –flate
-ed.
O,
What a pretty celebration on grey linoleum!

red, green, blue, yellow, orange,
red, green, blue, yellow, orange

is death always this vibrant?

three months ago everything was up in the air,
but
I still don’t think

we’re nothing
now?

Our security is shriveling at the cost of two plane tickets departing in two weeks neither you nor I are prepared so we don’t sleep and it’s starting to affect me and I’m worried about the holes in our throats