Swan Song
No painted faces
thoughts above water
sailing
they don’t read books
or write poetry
feathery, plump
wordless
a hard wind
natural
words are my dreams
falling
not questioning whether it exists
beauty
on the horizon
Embarking
Her fur is Heavy
Jennifur sits in the corner of the window
radiator not on but not as cold as the fogged pane
that she looks through motionless waiting for a bird
Jennifur sees you. A heaviness in the center of her chest
layers of limestone fossilized winters
a virused landscape wet dead and silent
her breadth is moving thoughts from cells that share
red-orange reflection into a cat’s eye
She doesn’t need a book to tell you how she feels
When you are dead and living in Denmark, will you remember
the name Sven? says the four year old in the room.
Jennifur doesn’t blink but stares into his soul.
She can’t remember the book she read
SPHERE
I crawled in the hole and found paradise
But then the walls shattered.
Covered in shards i saw hell
Summer
I stopped during those months
laying flat in the sand
paddling along the school
submerged and balanced
the bus took me out of the city
through a landscape with
lakes and trees
to my drugged helpless dependent
asking me for time
away from my performance
late to my partner
Will you take photos of me
against this landscape?
When it snows, it’s beautiful.
My partner explained what
he had planned for us to perform.
I follow Anna with her baby carriage
to the exhibit.
We are separated at the elevator,
she texts that she has finished.
I walk away, stop and turn back.
The ticket is too expensive to see
it again.
I can’t remember what the exhibit
is anyway.
The English teacher is practicing
Shakespeare, how the female
characters influence. He trembles
and stutters in an accent.
Where are you from? I say.
A small school in California.
I try to tell him I am a writer
but it won’t come out. Nervous
tick when I talk about myself.
The River
you left for the country
and he flew away
I am here now waiting
and cleaning up
after everyone
after the storm
after love
he calls me his flower
his mother as I read to him
the water collecting
around my ankles
I will go to the wedding
and then to the talent exam
I am the river
the members sit
on one chair
piled like elephants
in a circus
of unkindness
The whole of things
I’m finding a home for all my books.
I’m hungry with sadness.
Tea with you is painful
the pieces cut all of skins and petals
casting a shadow of unbreathable dust.
Rocks are burning but we can almost reach
the water.
I miss the land.
But who will speak tomorrow and who
will die.
That was unspeakable.
The more I move the chances multiply.
I want to stay warm.
Stay with me.
it’s not important anymore
when I laugh.
Some hang on the wall
or on the page.
They are paper butterflies.
My words anchor
my body.
All my conversations
I am always wishing for that perfect conversation,
the one where I understand.
She said she could not stand listening to
her husband chew
but she didn’t notice that his words were toxic.
All the synagogues are museums now.
Empty.
They spoke about beauty
like it was on the surface.
Bacteria on his hands.
I didn’t choose you
for your language.
She played the flute.
I understood history through his words.
I love how you bring together people at different stages in your troupe.
They all love to create.
Next Stop a woman of the world
She can’t get up
I hate you and give me all your money
she doesn’t move
Get out of my way
it’s private property
I’m vegan and only cook for myself
Make your scary face
I can’t do it anymore
she was a good person, she had three cars
I only want a library card
Are you red or blue?
I’m from The City
Can I kiss you?
You’ve been to all of those countries?
But where have you lived?
only now.
did he touch her in his mind?
stop asking questions
I hear you
Then why didn’t you say anything?
stop asking questions
I always look at everything as art so I don’t take it apart
I don’t waste time
every morning I get off at the wrong stop
Don’t you know when to get off?
no. I’m writing poetry
he looks like a king
he looks like god
Did you see him?
daily flowers
All flowers fade
rousing death
a pillow for your thoughts
repose arrest
For one even forms ambitions
thoughts sleep trouble awakens
deliver questions and reasons
polluted with fear
back and forth, art and life
you see things as a critic
I am an art lover
Making a hard fist with one hand
with the other decorate the air
with a delicate dance
O routine break my heart
It’s too tight from neglect
When they were small there was one bed
and they whispered
to each other.
SULFUR 