sink hole

what happens when something

finally sinks in, comes in behind the

eyes, down into the head, through the

throat, into the deep seat of the body?

 

where does it land? does it take the ship down

with it? we volley these words back and forth, back

and forth, but at the end of the exchange, they are still

just words; it can take lifetimes to truly unpack them:

 

god, religion, truth, beauty, spirit, art, gender, love — to let them find a

home, a dark shifting breathing sink hole that is slowly unseating the world.

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humanity v. machinery

without light

there is no color.

 

darkness is

the default.

 

you have been given a hall pass;

why aren’t you wandering?

 

tunnels of cool white tile, green carpet as quiet as moss,

hundreds of stampeding feet now caught in class.

 

if you go straight from point a to

point b, you are squandering your

 

right to stay in the liminal

for just a little while.

 

every thing will pick back up too

quickly and too easily and this

 

moment will be gone.  with great

beauty comes great risk—the light of

 

dawn; and the bigger dare: to follow the

red neon signs and exit the building.

 

waiting

i wrote that poem

while sitting in a

waiting room. every

room is a waiting

room, really: a moment

wanting to bloom, to

become, to sing forth

like a glass of warm

rum and a night of

stars. my messages to

you are one-way, like

prayers—red-eye wishes

in a bottle, floating out

to sea—bobbing, whispering:

see me, see me.

 

currency

take it—

this tiny purse:

 

hold it in your hand, feel

its woven edges, its

 

rounded corners, its

tight, shiny clasp.

 

weigh the change as it

shifts and stretches the

 

fabric. this is

the treasure:

 

this moment

 

this gold mouth

clicked open,

 

these carved coins

spent, one at a time,

 

at your own

delicious discretion.

 

but first, the ridges

rolled between fingers,

 

each cool face held up to

the lips and kissed

 

before being tossed

—heads over tails—

 

into the fountain.

ride

bird

the first few months are magic, are safe,

are exhilaratingly edged, are me showing you

my best held-together self. it’s not fake; i’m really

feeling it, really flying. but it’s not the whole

 

package. it’s as if a part of me—that

spiny slant of light—has split off and

soared—and you are the reason, and the

co-pilot, and the sunset, and the high.

 

the trick is in the sustain. all things must come 

to a bend; all things must eventually land.

but what a fucking ride.

what a fucking sunrise.

 

i would not go back and change a thing.

ok, maybe a few tiny things—

but only on my end. you were every

thing i needed at that time.

 

you were

every thing.

and for a moment,

so was i.

orchard

pre-view

i’m here.
i’m here in the heart of the city.
in the heart of pretenses.
calling you through this concrete window:

you just stepped out of the bath,
out of breath from the heat and the
stretching and the thoughts of wanting me
to see you even in the midst of your mess.

we’re both here. on this non-fiction line.
on this day of one lost hour. on this day
of the dead; of our continued living in
electricity and love and power and dread.

right before i stood up and
nailed it, all of it, right to the
tree and then sunk down on my knees
to worship her sanctity—

i sang you the words of my grandmother’s
story, and you told me of your father’s
eulogy, and our hearts pounded together
over the invisibly real sound waves.

First Kiss, by Kim Addonizio

Afterwards you had that drunk, drugged look
my daughter used to get, when she had let go
of my nipple, her mouth gone slack and her eyes
turned vague and filmy, as though behind them
the milk was rising up to fill her
whole head, that would loll on the small
white stalk of her neck so I would have to hold her
closer, amazed at the sheer power
of satiety, which was nothing like the needing
to be fed, the wild flailing and crying until she fastened
herself to me and made the seal tight
between us, and sucked, drawing the liquid down and
out of my body; no, this was the crowning
moment, the giving of herself, knowing
she could show me how helpless
she was—that’s what I saw, that night when you
pulled your mouth from mine and
leaned back against a chain-link fence,
in front of a burned-out church: a man
who was going to be that vulnerable,
that easy and impossible to hurt.