Ghosts for hire, whispers in her mouth,
cysts to feel, the symmetry of a gift.

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

You said it was okay to blame
what goes wrong on the planet

We found in his suitcase T-shirts, his siddur, gifts he bought for his grandchildren…

In my universe, my arm carries a heart and flowers,
my back a misguided quote

you quit wearing pants
loaf around your yard
in hole-nipped panties

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

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.

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…

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

The sin is existing.

We stop doing dishes while
a mile unwinds
from the tree outside.

Mostly he ate what was put on his plate
snuck coffee grounds or dirt for a snack
Once a zipper Unzipped

I have observed, the theorist
I am

I have an axe
with hearts gashed

I want to roll in this moment until I become its vocabulary
until I smell like the bones
until I am its echo…

If my life was the size of my arm, I would stretch it out for you.