LEAVING MEXICO
after Ocean Vuong’s “Essay on Craft”
Because the microwave
lighting the evening
crept into my metaphor
without asking me
if I wanted to see. Because
after dinner we laid in Dad’s
pick-up like tranquilized cattle
and no one came
to turn on the stars. Because I ran
out of alliteration
after fleeing and freeing
tied my tongue.
A LITTLE FERAL
There’s a car in my neighborhood with the bumper sticker
“a little feral” and I think of how yesterday I sawed
off two slices of watermelon and let them drip disgusting
down my elbows. I catch myself sometimes: I forget
to sweep the corners on purpose or run a load of laundry
without soap. I press into the world’s chest—will it budge?
I didn’t know I loved my first boyfriend until I yelled fuck
you one night and he didn’t leave. I do this—I push back
like a palm in church. I didn’t know I loved God until he grated
the black night into my bowl and didn’t flinch when I threw up
a few stars.
I THINK I PULLED A LITTLE GOD
FROM MY MOUTH
that's what she said
the night they found
her throat in the alleyway
behind HomeSense, rolling
around in vernix
and blood. No time to call the doctor,
her jaw had simply hinged
open like a red tulip
on autopilot. Rumor has it
this woman birthed
a voice the size of her life.
HOW ABOUT
my yellow face in the police
blue sky, stranded like a lost
star. How about daylilies
in a field of cow shit
sucking sustenance like good
gods. How about ferns
in pots as rough as a heel. How about
airplanes. And aperitif. How about I follow
you into bed with satin
hands? How about we linger
in the hallway to hell
a bit longer? I could do this,
I could make myself obey
the earth for you.
DON’T TAKE THIS THE WRONG WAY,
BUT GOD CAN’T HEAR YOU
because he has no ears
of his own. Your ears are his.
You think there is space between—
a whole sky, fat as a blue whale—
but there isn’t! God can’t even see you
in your combat boots and red cashmere
scarf from the consignment store.
There is no celestial and woman.
In fact, all 3.95 billion gods
wake up every morning
in little apartments, get dressed
in colors that can scream, and roam
the world in boots just like yours.
THIS IS ALL I KNOW ABOUT HAVING A HEART
It never happens twice,
the beluga blows,
the sun hangs grey and washed,
like an old comforter
on a grandmother’s clothesline.
We are quickly fucked
under a sunset, like lace in an oven.
To have a heart
is to have a task, to have a heart
I know, sounds
like gravity had a baby,
but it didn’t—it’s just
floating on the first rib—
the original error of life.
HOPE TRACT
after Ocean Vuong
“I praise you because I am fearfully
and wonderfully made”—Psalm 139:14
Because there is no hatred between a bee’s knees
and the pollen. Hey. I am cut
throat and I admit flowers are still beautiful
outside of a crumbling cathedral. Because the chords
in my throat drowned in hymns long before
I was baptized in my boyfriend’s pond.
Because I will always need to share
a little gospel. I memorized
the stem, the stamen, and the pistil. I sank
my knees into the soft, yellow of hope—
felt the good news spread.
MY FATHER’S EYELASHES
after Dion O’Reilly
Unruly wild snakes, like Satan’s
pubic hairs. Gates to hell.
The door to a swamp—
toad-green and fermenting.
My father’s eyelashes, a thousand
mini-machetes.
His corkscrew eyelashes, his rabid
eyelashes, his scorpion eyelashes.
My father’s eyelashes—the first
fluttering thing I’ve wanted to bury.
SOMEWHERE, A PACIFIER IS USED
for the last time. A child lets go.
The night groans as I fall asleep
on his pullout couch. A grandma
puts her oxygen aside. Time
is passed around like diamonds
in a good family. We borrow
each other’s last closed fists.
MY DOCTOR SAYS HAVING a baby
can cure endometriosis
“In a dream, you are never eighty.” —Anne Sexton
So I am still
standing here
in a linen dress,
fresh and flat
as a green onion,
crying for a chance
to grow a throat,
a perfect heart,
two little legs, soft
like warm potatoes.
