over and over. No matter what words she puts down,
it comes out with a bite. It says I love you with a
mouth full of bone.
The poet wants to stop writing about love and
predators but when she puts down the pen, she
always finds the poems anyway.
Growl
I Want to Fuck You but Your Mother’s in Town
Your body is not my favorite body.
I do not know its ins and outs.
It does not feel like a safe harbor to me;
but there is familiarity in it.
It is the closest body I feel comfortable
curling up with.
It is a good body.
It stands to attention when I enter a room,
but it does not hold my interest.
I do not dwell on your body
unless I am digging around for ways to
make myself shudder and shake alone.
I do not contemplate the curve of it
over a cup of tea.
It is where I want to be sometimes,
but not where I want to end up.
Sweet Tea and Seven Other Texan Cliches
My girl
doesn’t like to write
confessional poetry,
roadmaps through her becomings for strangers.
I admire the way she refuses to sell tickets to her own event,
like her life is not a spectator sport
like she doesn’t need a metaphor for my mouth
(and if she has one, I’ll never know what it is).
My girl
tastes like
fear of change,
tastes like spurs without the boots, without the cowboy
tastes like sweet tea and seven other Texan cliches.
She writes a lot about religion
for someone who looks out of place in a pew.
She subscribes to the bible of mouth to mouth
(and gin, and sweat).
She makes me want to ransack my own temple.
My girl
always talks about herself
like she’s a graveyard,
a place for other people to come and bury what they’ve lost.
As much as I want to tell her that she’s wrong,
I still find myself crouching in her earth
with flowers I’ve brought for someone else.
My girl says, “come on, baby, lay it on me”
and I still don’t know if she’s talking about my story
or my mouth.
RE: I Thought I Found the One
In your anger and your despair
and your glorious, glorious youth
do not discount the idea of soul mates.
Discount the idea of a singular soulmate.
You still have way too much to learn
to be taught by one person.
It’s going to take a lot of time.
It’s going to take a lot of long nights
and willing mouths.
And you might curse the one who teaches you
what it feels like to cry at the bottom of the shower
in the middle of the night,
but it is important to learn
how to get back up on your own feet
and let the wolf in your throat howl at the moon
once in a while.
Spit out the name of the one
who teaches you how to let go.
Keep every love note from the one who shows you
how to want yourself only when he stops calling you.
Use them like blueprints when you forget
what it sounds like to ache.
They’re not all gonna be bad.
Some of them burn.
Some of them feel like sinking
into the heavy belly of the sun
and sure, sure—
You never come away from something like that
without a few burn marks
but I promise it’s worth the warmth.
Remember,
every time you think you’ve found “the one,”
there’s probably going to be just one more.
And you’re still gonna love
every single damn one of them
like they were the most important sucker
on the planet.
In this life, you’re going to love like pulling teeth,
(one after another)
and that’s okay.
I promise it’s all right.
Communist Love Poem
You taste like a 1979 Shiraz.
You taste like the Berlin Wall coming down.
You taste like a powder keg
and honey, all I want to do is set you off.
You remind me of fir trees in the winter and
fir trees in the summer,
and that sweet pang right before a headache sets in:
you know you’re in for it.
I am so in for it.
I Wish There Was a Better Way to Say This:
the way you yank smiles out of me
like stubborn teeth
scares the shit out of me.
Plums
I spend too much time
thinking about fucking you;
admittedly, somehow
that seems more acceptable
than all the time I spend
thinking about
silly things
like my head on your chest
and whether or not you’d like my
mother’s recipes
or my affinity for pitted fruits.
For Selene Who Is Not Dead but Wanted to Be
The first time you told me that you wanted to kill yourself, I should have called your mother instead of letting you think you could rely on something as shifty and indifferent as me. I shouldn’t have written you poetry. I should have cradled the phone like a newborn and driven all the way to Texas, shown up on the doorstep in that indiscriminate heat just to open my arms to you.
It’s just that I am selfish and gas is expensive and it’s hard to tell the difference between wanting to die and just wanting to sink for a while. It’s just that I knew a boy once who said those words to me only when he wanted my undivided attention and my legs spread in the back of his car. It’s just that I thought it was one thing to want to die and another thing to pick up kitchen knives.
When you showed me that it was the same thing, I went through an entire season of not even wanting to stand near cutting boards because of the steady chop chop chop. Because of the slice. Removing the skin. Cutting out the bad bits. It’s like watching someone yanking out weeds from the root when you have dandelion veins.
I had a dream a few weeks ago of throwing all the sharp objects in your house onto the roof. I had a dream about burying them in the backyard so you couldn’t lay out treasure maps on your skin anymore.
I had a dream about driving all the way to Texas just to end up crying in your mother’s lap.
I’m sorry it took me so long to understand. And I am sorry that I ended up understanding too well. I am still selfish and gas prices are still high and now I spend too much time having to wrap my arms around myself to ever let go long enough to hold someone else together.
I should have called your mother. I should have called your mother. I should have called your mother.
Blame the Writer in You
You meet him at the train station, twenty minutes
late. He smiles anyway.
You breathe. You breathe. You breathe.
He says, “I was nervous about our date so I looked
you up on the Internet. I saw your poetry.”
You breathe. You breathe. You breathe.
He tilts his head to the side, all posturing, all posed.
Like a mannequin. Like a movie still. Like five other men
you’ve been on dates with this month. He asks if
you are going to write about him.
And you growl.
But you do.
“I Thought You’d Be Taller”
I’m sorry we didn’t meet at a better time in my life.
I couldn’t give you what you wanted
when you wanted it.
Later I tried to yank it out of you from the root,
but you had none of it.
I’m sorry that I am back and forth,
push and pull
instead of effortless simplicity.
A Brief Note on Leaving Behind
Things Not Meant for You
Caitlyn tells me that she is proud of me
for not compromising myself and I thank her.
I do not tell her that sometimes it feels like
compromising yourself is part of growing up.
I Want to Kiss Your Knees
I’m sorry.
It’s 5:30 a.m. and I want
unconventional pieces of you
pressed between my lips.
Texts I Shouldn’t Have Sent to My Ex (part 2):
do you need help with your okcupid profile? i’m really good at getting boring strangers interested in me.
the last time we saw each other, i told you that my mother was on her way home just because i wanted to get you out of my bed. i want to be sorry for that.
i know that it’s stupid, but there are places i can’t go without thinking of you and it makes me angry. subway. the pizzeria by my house. i can’t use my orange sheets anymore.
you were right about my mother, by the way. i think it was the only thing you were right about.
i hate that your life is more together than mine. i was supposed to be the one going places. i was supposed to be able to look down on you. i feel like i’m still stuck on your bedroom floor with my summer dress pulled to the side.
i bought a new vibrator this year. it reminded me of dating you. i wish i’d had one then.
i loved her more than i loved you and i’m sorry that you knew it.
sometimes i wonder if we’re still supposed to end up together even though i don’t love you and the sound
of your voice makes me want to send my fist through a wall.
in the spirit of christmas, i think we should fuck.
do you want my new number?
Garnish with a Lime Wedge
You know that feeling when you drink too much
of a certain liquor and then even the sight of it
makes you feel unsteady?
That’s how I feel when I write poems about you.
Tonight I kissed three people on the mouth
because I still don’t know what you taste like.
I am always two parts tequila,
one part longing.
Peaches
You’ve ruined peaches for me.
I can’t eat one without thinking of your hands
dipping into my soft flesh, mouth dripping,
teeth skimming across skin, tongue lapping
at the excess:
greedy, greedy, greedy.
I am all rush and blush at a summer picnic lunch,
hands shaking at the farmers’ market.
The Dogs I Have Kissed
The last time I kissed a boy,
it was so dark that I could feel him out only
by the brush of his cheeks on mine,
the smoke of his cigarette mouth,
the dim glow of receding headlights.
It was a tequila kiss, a light beer brush up,
domestic names in plastic cups,
sloppy fingers and sloppier mouths;
I bit down on his bottom lip
until he pulled away
with a scowl
and I wanted it to be you.
I wanted it to be you
so bad I’d settle for less than lips.
like a fucking animal.
SFO: Flight UA 500
Connection time: 1 hour, 35 minutes
This is the closest I have been to you in four months.
Sometimes I think I will always be stuck
writing poetry to you from airport lounges,
waiting for connecting flights
to take me somewhere I’m not sure I want to be.
Anywhere more than a breath away
from your warm morning mouth
is somewhere I’m not sure I want to be.
How many times do you think I would have blushed
at your touch in ninety-five minutes?
Headspace
For My Saint Kilda One Night Stand
Tired of fighting but still fighters, we took to your sheets armed with skin and teeth. It has been a month since I bested your body in bed.
I am sorry if you knew my head was somewhere else. It is so strange to be pressed up against someone’s mouth and to be, at the same time, nearly eight thousand miles away in the arms of a man with a softer smile and bigger hands.
You kept looking at my face and I wanted to ask if you saw me, or if you saw only the woman who took one of your bookshelves and most of the pictures off the walls when she left. I am sorry that I could not fill your bare apartment. I am glad that I could fill the void she left in your palms.
I don’t know what it is in me that yearns to be the lifeboat that people throw themselves at when they are drowning. I wanted to taste the salt on your skin, to press my mouth against the violent curve of you.
When we met, you recited the list of girls you’d been through since your breakup. You didn’t use any of their names. I still wonder what my euphemism is—whether I’m the American or the girl who wrote a poem about fucking you. Maybe I will be both. Maybe I don’t even make the list.
For me, you are the thirty-three-hour date, and the man who takes his tea the way I take mine in the morning when no one else is around: too much milk, too much honey. You are the man I refused to kiss goodbye.
I could have spent a week in your bed.
To Myself: On the Plane
You kiss boys like you practiced on juice boxes,
always reaching for one last drop.
You kiss girls like you really believe
slow and steady is the way to win a race.
You don’t kiss your family anymore,
not even on the cheek.
The last time someone took your face in their palms,
you wanted to move into their night stand.
You wanted to curl up
with your head between your legs.
You wanted to do cartwheels down the street
and never come back.
You went back; but only twice.
He talked too much about Canada in his sleep.
You thought for a while he might just have a thing
for cold weather,
but she wasn’t a country; she was a girl.
When you left, you texted him from the airport
because you’re bad at goodbyes,
and what he said
made you cry your way onto the plane.
I know that it’s hard to be hard,
but you’re stronger for this.
Appetite Suppressant
It has been weeks since I’ve caught
even a whiff of you.
I’ve got the aftertaste
of someone else’s mouth in my throat
because I am sick of waking up
with some part of me
growling.
I am an indiscriminate kisser.
Like a dog all shaken up
when its owner’s out of town,
I am happy to see just about anyone.
Strangers all stuck up in my teeth
because I’m heart-hungry.
I Don’t Know What Any of This Means
My father was the kind of man who would always pull over at the site of an accident to offer help even if phone calls had already been made, even if people were already there. It was his sole redeeming quality; he ran away on
ly from the messes he made. Running into someone else’s burning building was no problem— metaphorically, anyway. He never did pass his entrance interview.
My brother talks about car accidents the same way I talk about family. I don’t know when he learned to forgive. I don’t remember teaching him that. I don’t remember learning it myself. His life’s ambition is to be the man my father never was: to step up to the plate, to grow into a firefighter’s uniform or ride shotgun in an ambulance.
I am still stuck on the bathroom floor with my resentment.
I lived with a man once who was so afraid of losing me that he stopped kissing me. I think he was trying to get used to the taste of my absence. I think he smelled smoke on my skin. We burnt out and I never looked back. I have grown into this cruel thing with running shoes, comfortable only when I lock myself away.