Served Cold

I’ve decided I like
purpled skin, fear,
scabs, edema delivered
from an aluminum bat gripped
in sweat, the amp-ed up
saliva boil of hate,
a body shredded
like a dog toy—
fuzz stuffed
and teeth-marked
plastic whimper-heart
street-strewn, stepped on—
hovered by
eyes gone owl.

Originally published in Maggy

Flat-chested Girl from the NGO

Know that she
has the advantage here

she could quicken somebody’s blood

and her nose is pierced
with a little diamond
it glints

a flare, spark, feather
of eroticism floating above
what she says and
says she knows

and she has a jeep
she sees a road

sees me
only as a shadow
around a beer

an unshowered attitude
tipped back
in a molded-plastic chair
watching

three frantic cockroaches
map the wall
behind her head

wishing she’d kick
the chair out from under me

something

to compensate for her
over-sized tee shirt
the glib
presumptuous faith

her ergonomic
backpacker sandals

wishing
she’d stop believing
jump up and cuff me
with the back
of her hand

rise and burn
with some gorgeous, sudden
blue coal fury

spitting down rage
on a brokenness
that flourishes
beyond our knowing

and nothing

we can do
but trouble it

sometimes beautifully

originally published on rumpus.com

A Possum Entering the Argument

We’re talking about
when we met
and you say

it was easier
to fall for me thinking
(I’ll remember

this pause)
it was likely I’d be
dead by now.

Falling. Thinking. 
Waiting …
Have I

undone
what you've tried to do?
You say no. 

You say the surprise
of still being
is something

being built –
the machine of our living,
this saltwork of luck,

stylish, safe,
comfortable and
unintended. 

Meanwhile, I haven’t
had the opportunity
to tell you, but

our lovely little dog
has just killed
a possum.

Maybe it’s unfair,
a possum entering
the argument here.

But I lay it down
before us:
because an ugly

dying possum
played dead
and didn’t run,

its dubious cunning
was brought to an end
outside our door

by our brutal, beautiful
and very pleased
little dog.

So how do I say
that this is not
about death or sadness

or even whether
you really
first loved me

waiting, thinking
I’d be
dying young?

It’s just that
standing there
a few minutes ago

holding a dead possum
by its repellent
bony tail,

I was struck by how
eerily pleased I was
to be a spectator

to teeth, spit,
agony and claw,
feeling full of purpose,

thinking how different
in our adversaries
we are from possums.

We try love—
the fist of words,
their opening hand.

And whether we play
dead or alive,
our pain, the slow

circulation of happiness,
our salt and work,
the stubborn questions

we endlessly
give names to
haunt us with choice.