The makeshift ashtray

A better word for purgatory

why breaking up is good to do

I whispered
a memory
into my fist
tight against my lip,
those late summer
allergies making it a greasy mess
but contact

is good
to feel out
the death
of longing

may my father
rest in peace,
no longer running
through corridors
and staircases
finding the same resolution,
some warriors
need to let prey
dance

they lift
up their fantasies,
finally among
the rhythm of the
night sky

harvest moon with H

I read today
that memories
are time
machines,
some past
some future,

called dreams
broken against

shattered like sentiments
the birds squawk above
while diamonds crash
on brick
your head the space
underneath a gasoline
rainbow
we threw strawberry pies
at boarded up windows
watched the harvest moon
rise

slowly pushing its shoulders
past brooding clouds
giving into night

I confessed
jumping up next to you
that some things
never change,
staring into the wonder

for my three

It’s not about the father
it’s not about wanting your desires
fulfilled by your father
it’s not about him
it’s not about longing
for him
it’s not about his needs

It’s about yours, the female
child, a day away from birth
about forgiveness
about freeing yourself from
the hook
see,

they all say
it’s about the woman’s
failure to birth
and sustain that dream
the father’s dream,
the father’s ascension

I destroy my heart
every awakening
losing the weight
between cries to friends
across states

and yet there remains
love

for all the cooks I fell in love with

it’s 2 am
the soy pots are washed
dried wheat
like polished rice
at what rate
does the heart beat
when

you smile at each other
in your own secret
ways, edged against a ceiling
to ceiling
green ladder
I knew slow

motion in turns
that’s how we know how much
to sell
called out advances
vessels
shattered,

your sunburnt,
blushing cheeks.

for courtney

I imagine us small
holding hands
eye to eye
finger to finger
afternoon sunshine

pours through crevices
erased
passed
reconciled
the tips of our hair touching

the summer I
drew through the rain
on a creaky deck
singing songs
that weren’t mine

I watched an airplane
lights against grey blue sky
we both hate the 4th,
who wouldn’t

if they knew
how to wear
their souls
on their skin

our ancestral
lines laughing at the
front door,
we met

the long meal

I arrange things
on my kitchen table, that’s
also¬†a desk, that’s also
a set down of groceries, that’s
also the space
between love and hatred,

like cousins you hear
loudly enough for empty seats

truly, I found no path
on your map of big goodbyes

hit by opening umbrellas
striped by shade and sun

I said
let me go
let me rest
let me pause

beneath that tree with the broad bottom
you return,
tracing your new skin
meeting lips so full of words

your small touch in a pink room
the red waffling of your shirt,
catching bad jokes just to talk
we talked all night

to remember in sight
to live in horizons
to die in their shadows

creating today

february in oregon

I thought Mary was disgusting

For wanting sex
with her students,
I let the copy machine blind
it out, no matter how
many times she said
I like
your skirt,
but

I think I’m falling
in love
with a student,
my student, not a mistaken
thirty
something you woke up to
muttering no nothings
to behind the rim
of his hat,

Yes,
I notice

you and I
hate it.

But nightdream on my porch,
it’s just where the heart

goes in the changing sky,
I’ve studied the weight
of your gaze
fresh off an idea
and how your anger, I accept
kicking and screaming,

the moments of least intention

Floral couch conversations

Teaching requires

the catch of a worn mitt
second helpings of pie
a niece’s toppling embrace

a stern captain’s eyebrow,
on the changing horizon
a closed door lined with Staples

paper, your shared mate put up
the door is closed,
my sign is folded upright

please can I finish this last bite
wiping cheap honey mustard
from my chapped lips
speaking comes with prices

enough to pay for rotten, greasy apples
you cut to slivers
and convince yourself they are fine,

teaching burns
like a coming star only
those that believe can see
of all
the teacher gives

the contents of a myth’s heart
the do is doing, but not
for a teacher’s heart, that
is tethered
to young souls,
teaching should

revere
those,
to learn, and beg
the drips of unread pages too still
to fill a cup,

teaching drove me home tonight,
all blinking reds, yellows, fluorescent white,
a woosh of dry eyed commuters, we
leave two rooms of cars
open

like a shredded can of comfort,
teaching.

When camping

jellyfish clear as old
hills, cleared of schoolyard
fish, stepping over
years of fallen trees
the islands too tiny to count

a smooth black stone
an afternoon of sunburnt cheeks
with cards in hand
a walk through crates of peaches
an unbearable wind with whiskey
in an old tin bottle
a long talk shared across shaggy dogs
and picnic tables at sunset

waking mornings shared
with mosquito bitten ankles
cold nights of long embraces
the walk

through the starry tunnel of
light green moss,

at night
we left
our shoes,
those tracks
easy to remember,

how we surrendered
hearts to moonlight in sea,
the dearest childhood friend
walking through sandy goodbyes

stitched hearts

and now I’m
thinking
of your words
before a smile,
frozen like tiny
fish happy to be free
of the season

thinking of badly cooked
dinners in two kitchens
blasting 90s hip hop,
our silly laughter
and light
surrender

down to the last
curve of the road
as we fought best intentions
and drew blood out of love
singing at Valentine’s
and screaming vows
projected slow motion,
through our memories

the first
summer I’ll see.