Mornings are the hardest. Mornings make daggers in Hope’s eyes. Mornings bring her up from the soft white nothing, the underside of his arm, its depth half-imagined to have been a cavern overnight. Mornings strip the reek of his sweat from her thighs, dig bits of his skin up, up, up from beneath her fingernails. In the morning, she falls.

Down from the bed, bared bravely to the sunshine, Read the rest of this entry »

veo una luz de fealdad dentro de ti
veo un fulgor de confusión dentro de mí
veo unas palabras que no riman
veo unas campanas que no suenan Read the rest of this entry »

losing each other is the slow defeat
of a house falling down. the first
time it comes, you are lying up at night,
when your eyes, tracing the habitual cracks
in the ceiling, comprehend that the rafters
have begun to bend towards each other, that
the wood has begun to sink into each other
with the soft glaciality of rot

and you roll over on your side and press your lips to
the slope of their back, and they murmur to you
in  their sleep. and the second time it comes,
you are  in the kitchen, slicing fruit, and there is
a  shifting in the air around you and
shudder! on the cutting board Read the rest of this entry »

She sits on the edge of the bed and looks at her hands, which seem to fall loosely across her lap. He is standing at the mirror, working his bowtie into a series of crisp corners; she watches with interest, unsure as to whether she feels removed from it all, the machinations of the navy adult suit hanging in his closet, drawn across his shoulders.

“You’re so funny, you know.” Read the rest of this entry »

i am so small and
attached to
everything. soft

skin ties between the
longed-for quietness in my
approach of the universe, and Read the rest of this entry »

i want to talk about novelty and when i say i want to talk about novelty i mean i want to talk about fear and when i say i want to talk about fear i mean i want to talk about things getting bigger, i want to talk about

my skinned knees when i was a little girl, the feel of
the air in my hometown when it strikes the soft stomach of
summer, the gentle give of the middle, the state of being
halfway there, and i want to talk about strength because i don’t believe i have any of that yet because when i think about that summer air i feel bits of me break apart, the vastness of that sky, and i want to talk about things getting bigger, about fear, i want to talk about novelty, Read the rest of this entry »

when i think about you and me, i think
about echoes, or echo, how she at least
was never at fault; all she ever did wrong
was speak, she spoke, that classic female
crime, all she ever did was speak and
love a man and not speak about it for
having spoken too much before, and he

laughed at her, crouching in the over
sweetness of the moss at the banks
of the river, the sun sharp in his hair;
what’s mine is yours, but you are
nothing; when i think about you and me,
i see your face reflected in the water,
shimmeringly crowned in the new shoots
of my tenderness, the whisper of the reeds. Read the rest of this entry »