Impeach You

Her nerves wrap around a mystery
she doesn’t need to solve
till they become entrapped. Nothing
gets solved. May as well make
like an archaic torso
of a god—lamp lit—
and change your life.
Everyone is a thief
in the dark after hours.

Way Before Daffodil

Cradled between merry-go-round
and satellite,
the first words
he would say to her
were an insult
wrapped inside
an error becomes erotic
presumption blanketed
with snotty affection.

Is it a deep blue
sleeveless floral button-down baby

doll dress
with a collar, or

a maternity
jumper? Didn’t your mother
teach you

it isn’t

polite to ask
if a woman is

knocked-up? To her face?
As she dances? To your music?
Damn, boy! Is it mine? Just you wait and see.

Made of Wood

Now I want to tell you something
about what? I don’t know
how to speak in tongues. I try
to be honest. But the color
blue comes out first. What the hell
ain’t it about? Everything
worshipped—including stuffed monkeys—
leads to silence or ink drawings of stolen crutches.

The Last Daffodil, Or How to Become Famous Inside the Take No Heroes Hotel

The window
seat is the aisle
seat. It’s too damn small. Claustrophobia

can be triggered
at any moment. Am I
the only one

who heard you
expose that moment

a young woman jumps

a moving
to change her life? An island known

for brass rings. But now it’s the back
of a larger jet, not
a bus. And the word

turbulence is a curse. Gravel
roads and potholes
in the sky over

Ohio and Wisconsin. No,
it must be the Great
Lakes. Each

and every one. And rivers
that flow too slowly

or not at all. You belted out
the question:

“Is it Mine?” There was nothing

there to be yours
yet. When there was,
you didn’t want it.

(Did I?) And then
it was gone. Name it. Go

ahead. Name.

It. I

dare you. And

I will not offer
suggestions. And

once named, you can
forget it—me. Yeah,
thought so. Descending

over the Mississippi, a landing
so smooth.


No matter how many transfers
I pluck off

the ground, she will never
kiss me

on the bus
again. Valid

for 2 ½ hours. Time’s
up. Dirt on the magnetic

strip. Invalid

for life. How lame
that I am still limping

after all these years. Again,
I forget

who she is—Daffodil
or some lesser lily

of the field. Face validity
will do. Fingerprints

everywhere. I do know she’s no longer
made of glass.

The Mats at Midway Tonight

I’m going to start
wearing a money
belt to pretend

I’m traveling
in a foreign
country. Wide enough

to hold
a passport
and a spleen

in case mine needs
to be removed.

I would keep it
so I could still vent.

No one will accuse me
of being passive

aggressive. Where am I
going tonight?
Saint Paul. You never know.

Will have to cross
the Mississippi, you know.
Maybe, you don’t.


Ambidextrous from
now on. There will be

awkward days. She’s too
in the groove. Do you

want to help her
realign her pelvis? Take

this broomstick. Start there. Don’t forget
to activate her

brand of narcissism
typically found in a meadow

hemming in woods she knows
only in daydreams.

Figurehead Off the Prow

She could return to the man
who dances with praying
mantises. Or, to the water—colder

on the second day. Or,
another man

she hasn’t spoken to
in over 20 years. She sees him—does he
see her? She imagines

how she might reinvent
his gaze. How he would look

underwater when the ocean
has calmed. Or, what he’d do
if a fox started following him.

Now she doesn’t even know
which man she means.

It’s all a wild ride
that begins in a dinghy
her uncle named after her.

August 27, 2014

A fox follows you
till fear makes you
sprint to lameness. A swim
in the ocean

in your dress awakens
your hidden desire
to be out

of control again. Your hair
may smell of seaweed
and salt mixed
with grief

for your father—some called
Running Fox—now dead
two years. But the air

you breathe
in this moment
brushes the Atlantic Ocean
across all surfaces—your face.

Behind Monumental

A large white dollhouse
with green shutters
on a folk art pedestal
seduces her. Not

those shell-encrusted
parlor memorials, painting
of the Pilgrim Monument, replica
of a whaling vessel. She’s

a little embarrassed
to be still playing with dolls’
homes. Tiny artisans
and a beehive furnace

in a model
of a 19th-century glassmaking factory
could take her away
for a night or two.

Fear of heights gets no purchase
inside a life in miniature.