Pencilz Down

1. That patch of dirt out by the drive way will never be a garden because

1. you know science and science told you to stop trying to grow things where your heart wants to see dust. 
2. the king rats and mole people have claimed that patch of land for themselves.  You hesitate to play the apex predator card this far into the suburbs. Plus it’s sort of neat to see them come together for a greater cause. 
3. again, science, but different reasons.
4. again king rats and mole people but because of fear. 

2. You’re not worried about drinking 

1. city water from lead pipes. You dream big and risk it all. 
2. cocoa with marshmallows at your kitchen counter like a goddamn toddler who cannot hold her gin. 
3. Polonium in your tea. 
4. Tea in your polonium. 

3. When confronted with discussing your favorite book

1. moonwalk away. They won’t love it the way you love it.
2. say it’s a tie between the Velveteen Rabbit and the Lorax. Celebrate your subterfuge by moonwalking away. 
3. answer with the Economic Essays of 1848, wait for another communist to agree and make out with them profusely, then go for kebabs. 
4. be the asshole who admits that they love to read, but not books. 

Austerity Measures

He will leave,

or I will leave 

when the thaw comes,

when the sun freckles 

and burns the bridge of my nose.

Until then, we are gargoyles,

perched on our cathedral couch

with noses cold and hands running,

our swollen cuticles stained yellow

with the ever expanding promise 

to be better,

tomorrow.

Preflight Checklist

Behind the airlock door 

there is something keeping this rocketship safe 

Perhaps it is better left dead and unsaid 

perhaps I can teach my tongue to curl and figure eight

fancy and tight

or maybe this is a game of fetch

where your mother -

drunk

and babbly-

throws the steak knife

on the floor

and I bring her lilac breath mints,

flashing the smile I rehearsed 

during my vivisection lessons with the butcher. 

Holding Patterns

The pattern of the bathroom tile 

resembles the blanket 

you wrapped around your dollies 

when they took ill.

Martha, your favorite, had chicken pox

until the red crayon spots you inflicted on her

flaked off and faded away. 

You swaddled her tightly

and rocked her back and forth, 

singing your hush-a-byes.  

Her eyes frozen open.  

Her plastic body  

holding the heat of your folded arms.

You now understand 

how you rehearsed your futility

from such an early age. 

The cat can no longer stand.

She’s dying, the way old house cats do:

tongue paper dry, skin and fur 

sagging from the bone.

She’s chosen to curl up

next to the cool porcelain toilet base.

You bring her canned tuna 

and a water dish 

and swaddle her in your bathrobe.  

Her paws no longer holding heat

in your folded arms. 

County Lines Mean Nothing

The same sun that 
steal pigments from the billboards 
stretched along the freeway

blushes my cheeks, 

even in January,

when the salted roads crack

under black ice.