Series of Water

drifting down the Bow
our bodies, barely graze
bristled hair, forearms

trout skim the riverbed
they like the shallows
getting suntanned
shiny, luminous scales
for the summer

Philomena says the water burns her skin
and when she cries, her cheeks blister and rift
skin, blood and pus
but she’s at the riverbank, languishing on the shoreline
legs dipping in and out of the mouth
froth, fill the spaces
between bone and muscle
until there is nothing but bubbles

Olivier builds a boat out of odes and nods
odd dreams he’s had of lives not lived
tempting whims to sail away
showing like cured fat on the pads of his hands

he keeps a book beneath his pillow
where he says he will go to next
his boat is
a poetry of papier mache words, sporadic amalgamations glued together like a schizophrenic’s wallpaper
layered and layered and layered and layered and layered and layered and layered and layered and layered and layered and layered and layered and

he’ll get out of here if he keeps asking, he thinks
his words will carry him down the river flows
and into a new adventure,
but it’s something he must learn:
origami is only decorative


I want you
not because I love you
take me down
and fuck me good
even if you’re mediocre at best
because I need a body pillow
a hug here or there
I’m a lonely fuck

Heartbroken by Choice

I thought it would be easy to get over you
after all, I’ve already been over you forever
but forever is easily trumped by a moment
when you call me to say,
I know
it’s okay
let’s just talk

Like a dunce I sit on my bed
too stunned to say a word
eek out a breath instead

And here I am, a couple of days
after our crash collision
in me, a series of tears, straightened lines
straining loss from want
you back, just to say,
living without you

the phone sits by my bed
I keep thinking you’ll call
tell me you’ll kiss me goodnight
and tuck my toes in, when I get cold
where will we go tomorrow
when you hold my hand
and what

Why did I only care about you
after you were gone?

A friend asks if I would hook up with him if I had the chance
what an opportunity
to swim in the ocean
and bite the bait

blood in the mouth
I eat longing looks, touches here and there
until there’s nothing left but bone


It’s not a race
nor a competition
I am not her and she is not me
and yet
who is that voice in my ear
who speaks so surely, who knows me so well
who says, you leave her in the dust
even if she is your one true friend
It is me, muttering into the steam
a shower to peel away my sweat
right to the bone
I am still worth something
even in comparison


Neocitran, raspberry red and glossy sheened
I try to drink it hot
to scald my throat, to kill the germs
that make me sick

But in the process, I imagine
my body moving through the walls
knocking on drywall, peeling plaster
Bent bones that crack out of place
the friction of joints
I haunt this mangled frame

Something is very wrong
but I don’t know what


Petrichor reminds me of a memory half composed,
half written like an amalgamation of lives never lived
the diary of a teenage girl
dreaming her way out

There’s a flutter in my chest and I am split into two
a me who sits on a train and watches the rain
pouring down onto the platform steps
and me here, in the office
feeling the pain of a silent conversation
between the desks and the chairs
the overhead lights that flicker
with no one here

Am I imagining that I was there?
Do I group together things to make thoughts
that never happened

My heart drops. A sudden sense of impending doom.
I am lackluster today
caught up in distractions.