Rip
we’re talking over
why it’s over
but i’ve climbed
so far into this hoodie
that i can’t see over
the edge
you’re saying we’ll grow
and i feel myself
growing into this garment
that you washed
trying to wear
through it
my arms stick out
when my throat sticks
but nothing itches
except the spot
you stitched us
together at
through the color of
my cheeks and this (fabric)
i say it’s fine
when you say keep it
as you have another
to try on
Visitor
after a moment
you get up and go to the piano
i can see you in the mirror
from the kitchen as you
watch your hands walk
a song that surges
like a winter wind
like a bayou heatwave
your left hand bellows
with laughter
your right hand is
a cheek of tears
the song ends
the three of us stay where we are
then the visitor says
it’s time to
go and so it goes
now the two of us
sit alone together
each weighing what the visit
brought… that song
lingers on the pale light
and we are grateful to it
for being something else we
can’t comprehend
Observer Now
you wouldn’t recognize
my conditioner bottle. such
is life, someday the man will
come around and you won’t
recognize him either.
five years and a funny
clucking sound, you’ll
wake out on unfamiliar
territory. probably glance
for your compass. look
back and remember some
detail, no longer salient.
Light
anyhow,
ain’t no water
we can swim from.
sit, sugar.
sit, love.
let’s not outrun
the floor.
Note: Light appears in Writer’s Block Issue 37 and is republished with permission.
Skookum Atlas 