the strands of your hair on the bathroom tiles aren’t sketching defeat. that’s you spitting disease in the face with another day you’ve woken up to.

You are strange, my mother said, dwelling on the past.

I have an axe
with hearts gashed

I am not a guide
for every traveler
of loss.

Should have found a job by now; should have slept in the night;
should have boiled old coffee before noon.

I buy too much, for someone of my stature.
could pawn a skinny metaphor to purchase a plump skin.
its reputed in our lineage— to daydream a life that shreds our pockets.

how does an afternoon turn
on its axis?

I like to think I’m also sprung,
released from the furnace knocks,
done with the heavy meat stews
and salty soups.

I am still waiting for the lion

love is a soggy tea stain on a grocery receipt

this is what I want you to to see:
leaves falling because it is too late for them not to

I would always rather be happy than
dignified. Rather held than held
in awe.

I don’t
know why
I’m in the garden
kneeling on dirt

the man is stayed bent over the canvas
of my sofa. the man is me the man is him
self and I bring down the whip…

and then her eyes fully opened — blazed through with strands of mud

we drove on through
the blue seal of morning as the turbines
turned and winked out their hearts

My grandmother asked, “Does it feel like being widowed?”