day two under
the weather
without a ship
without waves
without a horizon
to save me.

BB King and Franz Wright
have died
I’m hiding
beneath rain
that doesn’t fall
and Emily died

on this day
and Walt registered
Leaves of Grass
and the list goes on
as I wait
for a downpour

Oh, the stress
of being on display,
of going

to the mall
and having to stay
there. Where? Of

America. Oh,
the survival stories
to tell. If

we do that sort
of thing. Tanked. Touch

me. I’m not ready
to be touched.

He hides his words
inside a Mason jar. Thinks

no one will see him
peel them off
his tongue with sugar-tongs,
slip them in, screw it

shut. Nothing to do
with lisps, though he had one.

Outgrew it the way
he outgrows you
and your sea glass
smooth voice. No air

in or out. His own breathing
drained of sound

the way an alarm
clock inside
a sealed bell jar
won’t wake you up.

Sitting in a roadside cafe waiting
for the other

shoe to drop. My older sisters
tossed their sneakers

(probably red)
out the station wagon window.

Rumor was they blamed me
when our mother found out.

I was under one. Both my sisters
are older. I don’t always achieve

economy
of words.

Usually know where
the action lies. Avoid

the passive
voice. Most of the time.

It can be heard
from the other side

of the highway. A distant sound
to be avoided

by truckers and young women
on the loose. Facts lie more often

in spring. Be careful. The other

shoe might become
a lady’s slipper.

Frozen shut for months,
a gate begins to swing. She swallows,
breathes in warming air. Time
to speak up again. Letters taste as foreign

as rusted hinges
and shallow pools
of sweet brine. So many alphabet
flavors to acquire.

I’m having your
miscarriage is the worst
song title since the one
that begins
dyslexic. Sometimes I do

the math. To torture
myself, yes, but more
to torture the memory
of a daughter (not son)
that never got constructed

to be forgotten. I carry
this bus transfer
from a Monday morning
in March with me
in my purse to be

a birthday card
to my 23-year-old child.

To be memento mori
for you and me.

The hot
water gushing
from the ceiling
for example. Artificial

tears from a tiny
squeezable
bottle. The expiration

date tattooed
on her hip. No
one checked there.

Don’t wake
the monster inside.

Quiet as you go. Don’t feed
the geese on the pond

behind the castle
where the monster lives.

They’ll get used
to it. Demand more.

Ever been pecked
or bitten into submission?

Nothing fun
about it. If your wrist aches

from sleeping on it
funny, spend your waking

days doing something funnier
than planning

your own wake
with the sound on mute.