She follows the river
north. A rail bridge
that goes both ways
conceals the inevitable.
If she hires you
to photograph the real
landscape of her dreams,
be prepared. She’ll expect
a train
on each horizon.
Risk Goes Down
When emails
become too transparent, coffee
bars too communal, the cathedral
steps too shallow,
she’ll stop
this conversation
to honor stray rooftops.
Outside the Library
That ballerina on the back
of a bus, inventions
to relieve
sinus pressure before
all the trees
bloom. For the one who walks
alongside—wild
flowers mostly. And rants the color
of wisteria
early on.
April First
What tricks
will the day play
on her, she wonders. And she wonders
which former
lover will seep
through the retaining wall. One from here
or one from back east.
Those two in California
were not always so far west. She’s not
a humorless bitch.
She repeats. Not a humorless
bitch—just because she’s not
laughing with the day.
Ascension
This is the spot—the table
beside the escalator. Orange metal
railings mean nothing
to each stranger who steps aboard. She counts
the walkers—only one
so far. Stand
on the right, pass
on the left. She learned it
in the London Tube,
rediscovered it in the NYC Subway,
won’t let it go above
or below grade. It never made it
to this side of the Mississippi. Movement
along these banks depends—
on everything, even
that orange rail.
Steel Toed Heroine
She is one
of three sisters
too. She dives
into her own
wrecks. She can’t pick
up all that slack
on the line. But
she’ll celebrate
the way those combat
boots sink.
Who Embezzles Stars
Is the book
still king
on some other planet? Do inventions run
along parallel sun
rays? She asks
these questions without knowing
what to believe
anymore about the universe or red doors. Who
she might trust
to protect these poems
from shattering into weightless space debris
is who she might ask
to answer the rest.
Who Is She
To judge the games
others watch, their fictions,
what’s cold
to another person’s skin. She watches
seasons break
down, intersect, run
along parallel tracks
like subway lines
because she sometimes counts
more than four. And who’s going
to tell her to tally
the world another way?
They Were Identical
She pitches pennies
on the floor in the back
of a New York taxi cab
with twins
she used to know. Thirty-five
years. Nap dreams mean
nothing unless she chooses
to shape them
into visions to augment
the afternoon light.
She’s not going to
google those boys—
learned her lesson.
She doesn’t want to kill
off any more of her past
sooner than it needs to expire.
Sacrificial
She vows not
to fear the rain
that may come. Words
she may exchange
with a stranger, banker,
barista, vintage dress
shop owner. The best
road to ending
sentences. Answering
the phone. She has said
no vows
before—fears
it may be too late.
