I Remember Vodka

Is it enter or exit
through the red door—I
forget. A tumbler stands
squat on that counter. It was that easy

to reach across
decades to discard those too vivid
memories. A high pitched voice ruins
this whole non-narrative

hymn. I crumble
on a stoop behind a threshold
wide enough for both ways.

Only When You Accused Me of Starving Myself

Let’s agree to disagree
about this anger
I don’t feel. Only
those numbers in your handwriting
erased from a chalkboard
30 years ago know
how we were supposed to add up

or not. A psychology
of emotions cannot qualify

the spirit in the slate,
a song over the dugout,
stanzas hidden in the threshold
we passed through
so many times
without thinking to pause
long enough to honor the reveal.