The Brooklyn Rail

the traveler

he’s playing a guitar to no one
so I take the bench below the hill
there’s even less to see down here
a poodle bites a terrier
a toddler bites her brother
and I bite the faithful
skin on the inside of my cheek
and promise to do so many things

I’ll tempt semi trucks
from the double yellow
because a ripe body is good pay
for hard leather men
when every day is nothing but
high sun sweat metal
and palm calluses
I could be a livable wage

but anyways
meet me by the rite aid
and tell me another bright myth
of the big world

first snow in a warm year

Overhead is a pure blanket breaking
Under the weight of too many
Of God’s timed-out children.

And it’s too cold for the usual
Rituals. For walking the gravel (twice),
Or for spirals of tree dandruff
To continue their death path,

As I beg by the bowl. And
Every tear becomes nice crystal,
Festive capsules for my eyes,
With only the fear of cracking

If you look too much.
But if you do look,
I’ll be with the wealthy ones,

In the long coat walking
With stretched belly
And empty nails. March

Blossoms, premature and
Frosted, give up their small,
Pink evidence that we have failed
Eden, and must swallow the

Sword, flame and all.
And it’s all so pleasantly uniform,
This unchallenged gray
Gifting too close. So pray

We don’t fall through
To the chaff below,
Where no discarded floor

Can hold us all
Or could be paid
To hold us all.

bread and butter

Give me all the carnal
stuff at the bottom

of the pickle jar. We
save space around

here. Where else would
you fit decorative forks

and all the little bits
needed for sad attempts

at growing parsley
in your backyard.

Surrender to that Trader
Joe already, everyone

who works there is hot. Or,
you could have manna,

the only real essential,
rained down from

heaven in a bio-
degradable box.

my pink zip tie winter passing

Tied up in ribbons
of knowing held

in the tar pits of
of a girl’s eyes,

everything is delicate
in bondage. Giving up

watered-down bravado
and tepid faiths, go to

the sharp outline of
her with intentions to

fill. The windowsill

was full of stink bugs
long expired, and it

made me think of my
own crumbling early

on. Below, her hair
followed like a smudge

of ink from my eager
thumb, and I think every

moment since has been too
eager for the next and it’s

all bleeding through to
the end. The end of a

girl is a lot like that, so
much seeping selfishly

onto someone else’s
portion. Little brat. And

the insects cry orphan as
the crinkle frost kisses

warmth from the world, an
inconsistent friend at the

door, promising a few
more weeks for rent, for

spring, overdue payday,
the tense spring of a girl

sharpening without
you. And the asphalt

became so soft, as if
it had just been laid

yesterday, as if we, barefoot
so as not to melt our flip

flops, were still whipping
across on stretched legs, hair

bound back by polyester,
forgetting our mothers said

to be home by last
orange. As if March

were still cold, always
teasing to break. Breaking

a girl is easy if you’ve got
a gentle touch. But for

your sake, I’ll be bug
dust behind the screen

of someone else’s
owed reckoning

by the time every frill
is no longer beautiful.