I suffer visions and many indignities
while looking for the Lobster

The sin is existing.

love is a soggy tea stain on a grocery receipt

my father holds
his favorite drink

my love is a glass shard, a knife made of madness and moonlight,
and there are already way too many fragments in this house

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

Okay, picture this: We’re in an elevator. The elevator shuts down. It doesn’t matter where we’re going, only that we’re alone.

a folksome, gruesome opera
of gauze and malcontent.

He has stories that I am not in
anymore. It’s healed this way.

Long after midnight, we’re talking about our first time

I have an axe
with hearts gashed

You’ve spent a lifetime training
for this.

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

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

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.

I am not a guide
for every traveler
of loss.