poetry

I have an axe
with hearts gashed

I have observed, the theorist
I am

my father holds
his favorite drink

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

Ma wrings
a wet world
of colors

Winter sat like a wolf
on the horizon.

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…

You’ve spent a lifetime training
for this.

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

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

It is the 70s. 1970s? 2570s? Who knows?
Audre and I have a penthouse in New York.

The storm passes without snow.
The car waits loyally in the back lot.

Do not say anything anybody else has said ever. Things are not “bleached by sun.”

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

There is so little left of the tomato plants.