What a simple and acute request to
be able to speak to you again,
and frolic in your apartment
like honest athletes boiling and cascading
like bellowing smoke.

No Poem Is the Only Poem. No Story Is the Only Story. No Kings.
What a simple and acute request to
be able to speak to you again,
and frolic in your apartment
like honest athletes boiling and cascading
like bellowing smoke.
Mother’s second husband whose fingernails find purchase in her neck draining the stars from her veins.
My son pauses the game to say, “One time the wind was blowing so hard
you could even see it. It was gray, and it pushed against you when you walked.”
I imagine I am laid out On a table. Like a banquet. Very pretty. Wearing a flowing dress. Spread beneath my inert body Waves of gauzy, ref filmy cloth tease pale skin...
release me from page & ink. from story.
from the value of fragility found in silence
& the blush of petals against sky. & within
the release i find it. the brilliant. the just. me.
When I change the sheets
in the bed where you slept
I see you still there.