Good Earth Friday

Bucked on her own bicycle
through Central Park in the rain. Blue

Man Group was still blue
babies recovering from that original choke

without tubes. Never knowing
the price of gas anywhere. She could no more

identify the car you drive than you could
label her a type of flower that grows through cracks

in the sidewalk. Could be any day—she chooses
to call this one her station.

Grotesque

These immobilization fees
don’t cover what she does
with her left wrist. Flicks serifs

off letters the way she used to release
ashes from her smokes, the way
I might dismiss her

without understanding what she might be
building in that empty lot. April snow lasts
only so long—then she’ll write this off too.

In Situ

Her nervous system’s high
whine, his circulating blood a low
hum, their silence won’t come
the way they imagined
under these rafters at dawn. This return
to audible reality—a compulsion
to let the breath be known—weighs
on her as she steps off the back
porch. Onto pavers seeping
mud, her feet adjust to the sway. The rain
did not stop, but that wasn’t it.
Her disappearance completes
the arc of narrative
in light better than words.

Mosaic

As he disappears
behind a mountain, she sighs
a sigh weighted in sadness,
in regret, in relief. As she remembers

each step they took
toward the bluff before night blanketed them
in desire, she sees a gull
on the rock she had reserved

for them. No longer a them,
she turns her back
to the ocean—no longer in need
of more salt.

Fatten Her Own Muse

Once was a smoker
who no more. Planes take off
over her head, so she won’t
sleep, so she’ll be repulsed
by the smell of her former
self seeping through the door
clearance. In the retelling,
this story grows wings, extra
limbs, Medusa locks (larger than
life only through a water
glass magnifier), drawn-out pauses
over the city map she secretly reads
in the palm of her left
hand. Second or third wife, some of us
lose track in the translation
that gets written down
by mistake. This is no Torah
rich in color and lineage.
That story is not hers.

Before He Died He Called Me a Star

fucker. The man who snores
in a library coffee bar,
or the man I can only hear
through home stereo speakers—only see
on screens—all strangers
who grapple with their own
mortality. I have mine. Not certain
where the intersection lies. Six degrees
or less—I never had the patience
to measure that distance. Why talk
to your brother’s roommate, when I could be
kissing you full on tonight?

Accidental Rotation

If she plays exquisite
corpse alone
and the window washer hangs
in his own suspension above, who
will look out, who
might receive the bouquet
after the bottles
are drained? Could fold
down and pass
it to a stranger. Could tug
on his line till he touches her
ground where a new game might begin.