Why We Suck
I am going to stab you with a straw as if you are an orange,
just like the Tropicana commercial exampled, and suck
so your teeth will be without annoyance as we kiss
and we will for hours
with immune systems hype on vitamin C,
though we both have 200% left over.
We may never absorb.
But please, get better soon.
Our history tells me we share pain like colds,
without a notion of forethought
and your life pains me, to hear you
then read you as is, like this,
the words on this page
which resemble the words you sent me
over waves and nets that can capture and overtake the weak.
At times I wish you could cry
so much that you on paper begins to
drip and flow like your mascara;
leave the anguish and beauty blackfaced.
Only then could we commence to suck, no complications.
Alethea, do you see the worry
dyeing my soul an unnatural color,
cutting the woven hours between now and when
I swear we will see the reflection of each other
in each others eyes, though the room
will make the scene too dark to see one another?
Have you taken note of my form in your dreams,
as I have of you, so when darkness creeps
we can find the comfort in each others digits
and moles and split ends and lumps from old broken bones,
much like the desk and drawers and bed posts
and discharged shoes of a room memorized
for the right occasion—a much needed
bathroom break, amid our first night together,
you resting, sounding loudly asleep,
as I shake free the last drops of my digested juice?
You had better remember this moment.
X’s
You must be spit from the mouth
though I should likely rid myself of O’s,
those perfectly shaped stains,
blemishes I wish not to bleach out, scrub up,
only because I have already tried.
Mutually, we have walked so far away
we may one day seem like new prospects,
applying fresh ogle and flirtation, appeal for Zodiac
and social—O Negative & originally brunette I believe—
even managing to laugh for the first time in seconds
from the bellies we each adored.
We almost fall again, but still
those minute imperfections. Which reminds me:
if we soiled, why did you treat stains that way,
with globs of Tide, scratching soap in, never diluting
or measuring the bleach, merely slopping the solution,
only to criticize the machine we chose
when our linens came out torn?
The agitation of this washer, ever since,
reminds me of your agitation, and since I could not run
the damned machine without your edict,
I prefer to dish wash our two hundred dollar sheets.
I treated. And now I am forever chastised
by this grungy, disgruntled repair man,
water marks in the kitchen, destroyed sheets,
and siren in my head saying I told you so.
And I tried to say you were right, that one time,
for saying I told you so, but you could not hear me
over the washer on its last spin cycle.
No Release
Years of life, retail, and customer service left me
with few conclusions aside from this:
I want to coddle her voice like a butterfly,
dismember distracting wings,
And dissect parts I can’t name,
Spread eagle thorax, abdomen,
a neon flurry no more. I may ruin the aforesaid—
my hands never mastered threading needles,
will never successfully double knot size ones,
braid little girl hair on the verge of puberty,
or refuse grasping hands drained by chemo—
I do not possess the strength in my fingers.
While I daydream of the man I am not,
a woman before my counter continues her
“I am clearly ready for checkout” testimonial and stance,
underscoring the irritation in Morse code with her foot.
If I am—and if her plastic reads Sandra—without
an ounce of forethought, I will pick up the wings
of her words, and she will know the rest,
will know that possessing my mother’s name
is disrespectful. Your possession of her name is akin
to skinning my heart with a shard of glass
though I have certainly felt worse.
Minute
At times I minimize small enough
to jump in a pot of honey with Piglet
and hide from things that scare us deeply
and never seem to be our size,
and we may make our own Honeynut Cheerio
even though we lack the talent.
Tossing sugar crystals may be fun
and if I were small enough, I think
I’d sleep in the groove of your butter knife
because it looks like such a safe place.
“What Ya’ll Have Is Hard To Find These Days”
One day, maybe this waitress’ memory
of the love we exemplify each time we
sit here chatting over cheese grits and
smothered hash browns will become
the present and past that keeps us
coming back for another serving,
but if, for some reason, fate
decides to lift the shade
from her mind’s eye
and reveal that we
have never eaten
here before, I
will fill your
lap with
tears of
loss.
I am going to stab you with a straw as if you are an orange,
just like the Tropicana commercial exampled, and suck
so your teeth will be without annoyance as we kiss
and we will for hours
with immune systems hype on vitamin C,
though we both have 200% left over.
We may never absorb.
But please, get better soon.
Our history tells me we share pain like colds,
without a notion of forethought
and your life pains me, to hear you
then read you as is, like this,
the words on this page
which resemble the words you sent me
over waves and nets that can capture and overtake the weak.
At times I wish you could cry
so much that you on paper begins to
drip and flow like your mascara;
leave the anguish and beauty blackfaced.
Only then could we commence to suck, no complications.
Alethea, do you see the worry
dyeing my soul an unnatural color,
cutting the woven hours between now and when
I swear we will see the reflection of each other
in each others eyes, though the room
will make the scene too dark to see one another?
Have you taken note of my form in your dreams,
as I have of you, so when darkness creeps
we can find the comfort in each others digits
and moles and split ends and lumps from old broken bones,
much like the desk and drawers and bed posts
and discharged shoes of a room memorized
for the right occasion—a much needed
bathroom break, amid our first night together,
you resting, sounding loudly asleep,
as I shake free the last drops of my digested juice?
You had better remember this moment.
X’s
You must be spit from the mouth
though I should likely rid myself of O’s,
those perfectly shaped stains,
blemishes I wish not to bleach out, scrub up,
only because I have already tried.
Mutually, we have walked so far away
we may one day seem like new prospects,
applying fresh ogle and flirtation, appeal for Zodiac
and social—O Negative & originally brunette I believe—
even managing to laugh for the first time in seconds
from the bellies we each adored.
We almost fall again, but still
those minute imperfections. Which reminds me:
if we soiled, why did you treat stains that way,
with globs of Tide, scratching soap in, never diluting
or measuring the bleach, merely slopping the solution,
only to criticize the machine we chose
when our linens came out torn?
The agitation of this washer, ever since,
reminds me of your agitation, and since I could not run
the damned machine without your edict,
I prefer to dish wash our two hundred dollar sheets.
I treated. And now I am forever chastised
by this grungy, disgruntled repair man,
water marks in the kitchen, destroyed sheets,
and siren in my head saying I told you so.
And I tried to say you were right, that one time,
for saying I told you so, but you could not hear me
over the washer on its last spin cycle.
No Release
Years of life, retail, and customer service left me
with few conclusions aside from this:
I want to coddle her voice like a butterfly,
dismember distracting wings,
And dissect parts I can’t name,
Spread eagle thorax, abdomen,
a neon flurry no more. I may ruin the aforesaid—
my hands never mastered threading needles,
will never successfully double knot size ones,
braid little girl hair on the verge of puberty,
or refuse grasping hands drained by chemo—
I do not possess the strength in my fingers.
While I daydream of the man I am not,
a woman before my counter continues her
“I am clearly ready for checkout” testimonial and stance,
underscoring the irritation in Morse code with her foot.
If I am—and if her plastic reads Sandra—without
an ounce of forethought, I will pick up the wings
of her words, and she will know the rest,
will know that possessing my mother’s name
is disrespectful. Your possession of her name is akin
to skinning my heart with a shard of glass
though I have certainly felt worse.
Minute
At times I minimize small enough
to jump in a pot of honey with Piglet
and hide from things that scare us deeply
and never seem to be our size,
and we may make our own Honeynut Cheerio
even though we lack the talent.
Tossing sugar crystals may be fun
and if I were small enough, I think
I’d sleep in the groove of your butter knife
because it looks like such a safe place.
“What Ya’ll Have Is Hard To Find These Days”
One day, maybe this waitress’ memory
of the love we exemplify each time we
sit here chatting over cheese grits and
smothered hash browns will become
the present and past that keeps us
coming back for another serving,
but if, for some reason, fate
decides to lift the shade
from her mind’s eye
and reveal that we
have never eaten
here before, I
will fill your
lap with
tears of
loss.
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