TREASON

I am okay

at writing poems about love,

but bad at actually loving.

Okay at walking through the rain

and thinking that each drop upon my skin

is like a tiny burst of love

but bad at actually loving.

Okay at basketball

and knowing the names of trees,

but bad at actually loving.

Okay at offering

advice to my friends about love,

or preparing a meal with love,

or being aware of the fact

that I am being bad at love

while I am being bad at it,

but bad at actually loving.

Okay at mythologizing and regurgitating

memories of love years later,

but bad at actually loving.

Okay at loving you

when you’ve fallen asleep in my arms

and I run my fingers through your hair

and feel your steady,

peaceful breathing

and my one job is to lie still

so as not to wake you.

Okay at loving you

in those narrow moments,

but I always wake you up

in the end by accident

by turning the pages of my book

or adjusting the pillow

or reaching over

to turn off the lamp—

and in the sphere of that silence

there is no greater crime

than disrupting your steady,

peaceful breathing. So I turn

to my attorney, who is a giant

praying mantis.

He explains the plea deal

the court of insects is offering:

one half of the rest

of whatever forever turns out to be.

Just a half, he says, nudging me.

In that moment, his expertise

is palpable. This

is a praying mantis

who has honed his knowledge and skill

through long, earnest hours of training.

He understands the legal process 

and he is gazing at it calmly,

hoping I will be reasonable.

But what also

becomes terrifyingly palpable

is my realization that such expertise

can be so powerful and self-sustaining

it ceases to reflect reality.

I open my mouth

to explain myself,

but as I do my attorney

kisses me, and I am filled with green light. 

SAP AND KALE

1.

It is important that you pour

your sap onto my kale.

Although I wish you had done it

long ago, I will forgive your delay

the moment you begin pouring.

The need for you to pour 

your sap onto my kale 

has become increasingly urgent— 

although not so urgent 

that you should drop everything 

else that matters to you 

in order to do it.

I must remind myself

often that those other

elements comprising

your experience are more

than just obstacles in the way

of you pouring your sap onto my kale,

but are in fact facets of the whole

reason it is so

important that you pour

your sap onto my kale

in the first place.   

Although of course 

I prefer to gaze 

into your sap’s lush, enigmatic interior,

occasionally I fail to see

beyond its reflective surface

and must instead contend

with the cloudy outline

of my own face,

which makes me uncomfortable.

This should no 

longer be an issue

once you’ve poured your sap onto my kale.

2.

I apologize for my tone

when previously discussing your sap.

There was a lot I did not know

about sap back then.

I was recently gently 

corrected by the internet. 

I was then more

forcefully corrected 

by a chorus of frogs,

and then yet again 

by a message written 

in tiny, delicate, anonymous,

conspiratorial longhand 

on a dried out 

sycamore leaf

that I just happened to look down at 

one evening while walking, 

at which point I remembered 

I had known this

all along but forgotten: I had thought

your sap was something

that could be poured, but it can’t. 

It is something that is yours

and that I am meant

to want but not have. 

You, if I am lucky,

are meant to want

to give it to me—although

you cannot—and it’s this wanting 

that is the pouring 

I was once naïve 

enough to believe 

was literal.

Nevertheless, I remain hopeful

that you will soon pour

your sap onto my kale.

PURPLE CABBAGES

We agreed

that we would walk

as far as the row

of purple cabbages grew, 

then turn back.

But the purple cabbages

heard us saying this,

took it as a challenge,

and began erupting

out of the dirt 

spontaneously,

lengthening their row

into the far distance

until we couldn’t

see the ending…

No, they didn’t—

I just wanted them to

because this

was our final walk

because you

had reached

that inevitable

point in one’s life

when one simply must

move to Seattle

and I

was just

a little diplomat

from another dimension,

bound by the terms

of the deal

I had struck

at the gates

of perception

to stay here,

in Western

Massachusetts,

for at least six

thousand more years.

DIRTY POEM

When I take

Adderall I feel

connected to

my dad,

who takes it too,

although

I haven’t told him

we have this

in common

because I’m scared

he will judge me

or feel sorry

that I’m like him.

When you orgasm

around my hand

I feel connected

to you. 

Yesterday,

you said Sometimes

I get so excited

it feels a little

bit like panic

and I nodded

and wanted

to say something

but didn’t.

I don’t know,

I just feel

like there’s soft dirt

at the bottom

of this river

and I love

stepping into it

together—

or even

not quite together,

like the way

I felt connected

to Henri Cole

when I first read

his poem

“Beach Walk”

(we fall,

we fell,

we are falling)

on the computer

in my cubicle

at my internship

in college,

and I thought

I don’t want

to spend my days

in an office. 

Anyway, I do 

spend my days

in an office now

and I read

Henri Cole

at night sometimes

and I love

making you cum

more than almost

anything

and I’m talking

to my dad

on Zoom later—

he’s getting surgery,

I’m scared,

and there’s a lot

we haven’t said. 

FLY FLYING INTO A MIRROR

No wharfage, no

soft edges, no more

ice cubes or chances

to be normal, nothing

left of the landscape

that’s photographable,

no imaginary friends

seated at the dining

room table

and certainly no soup there,

no fish in the river,

no miracles arriving

in the form of phone calls,

no signs warning children

of the dangers of falling

from windows,

no muscular sailors

who happen to be passing by

to catch the children as they fall,

no sailors at all,

no boats or water,

no gum wrappers left

to fold into smaller

and denser arrangements,

no faded bronze plaques

inscribed with history lessons,

no history, no ability

to silence the advertisements.

Are there some places

where love simply

doesn’t grow as fast

as it decays? And by places

I mean people. And

when you fall

asleep is when

I need you

most desperately, because

without your eyes on it this

whole town disappears.

WIND-RELATED RIPPLE IN THE WHEATFIELD

I love the shape of our apartment

as I walk through it in near-total darkness.

I love walking slowly through that darkness

with my arms out, trying not to bump

into furniture. How many apartments

have I done this in now? I loved

them all. Or possibly I just loved

how they held darkness, slivers of streetlight

sneaking into the fortress, amplified and lent

personality by the darkness surrounding them.

Wherever you are is a country. Touch it softly

to make it stand still. Your hair getting caught 

in my mouth all the time, like a tiny piece

of you calling—like a tree trying to speak

to a rock by dropping a pinecone on it.

It is my intention to listen, but my hands

keep giggling while reminding me

I don’t get to be a human being

for very long, as if this were the punchline to a joke

whose first half I missed. I arrived too late.

I typically arrive about three years too late.

I wish I had been able to sit in that white,

aromatic kitchen and look you in the face

but I was not ready. I was still on my way.

I was lingering inside the perspective

of the spider I noticed crawling

along the baseboard. You fried

an egg. Is it possible to change

who we basically are? Thank you

for serving me cups of lemon tea

with honey in it. Even though

such copious amounts of liquid

would no doubt drown the insect

I imagined myself to be, that was kind

of you. 

“Fly Flying into a Mirror” was first published in Nashville Review and “Wind-Related Ripple in the Wheatfield” in Sixth Finch