Fever Dream

I don't know
can't I just

essere
un piccolo tortellino
in una ciotola
di brodo di Parmigiano Reggiano

and maybe
you can just

prendimi 

nel tuo cucchiaio

e ingoiami

dolcemente

Day 3

A headache like a vice grip

the kind of mole wrench I imagined

for days inside of my mouth

like that soviet spy scene

but the metaphor is out of the poem

and wrapped around my scalp

it feels like my teeth 

are stretching their legs

and I don't have the energy

let alone the bravery

to ask for a little relief

Glow

I'm mesmerized by the neon

and how it diffuses in the fog

a liminal glow, somewhere between

right now, adulthood or something like it

in the middle of nowhere, South Dakota
and the summers we used to spend

catching lightning bugs with our bare hands

and running at high speed with bare feet

I want to preserve the magic

in a peanut butter jar

but the magic tends to burn off

when the sun comes up

ships

There is something inherently gay

about trying to pinpoint the moment

our relationship ended

when, probably,

there was no relationship

in the first place

there was a feeling

there was a kiss, and then another

there was a night that I sat by myself

at a bar, in a long silk dress and a leather jacket

drinking the cocktail I ordered for you

when I thought you were running late

but then realized you weren't going to come

there are things like this

words and thoughts

that don't make it

past my fingers or my lips

but

there are the words that did

somewhere in the ether

on your phone, maybe

or scrawled on a paper scrap

moments that I longed for you

and you longed back

Nitrous Oxide

tw: dentistry, blood

I found a dentist that I can trust recently

someone who understands the anxiety

of his fists in my mouth

he's a reformed musician

who plays bands I like through nice speakers

I sing along to Blake Mills

high on drugs

and waiting to see what happens

but nothing happens

except for waking up

with three small droplets of

blood gone brown on a paper bib

I ask him about his big day

and if he bought himself a cannoli

when I look over my left shoulder

I see four long teeth with deep roots

crimson red on a petri dish

I know they won't be studied

but I take comfort knowing they'll be held

I wave goodbye to them and blow kisses

from the numb meat of my mouth

"mon dieu, adieu, mon dieu, adieu"

Port Angeles

Standing at the edge of the washout

I toed the sandy cliffs

newly constructed by the river

Something felt symbolic about it

we drove three hours to get here

crossed the sound on a ferry

I wanted to bring you to an ethereal place

a long walk with no witnesses

brimming with magic

The magic was behind me

you, climbing straight up a sloping hill

minding the ferns, offering me your hand

On Process, Lately

I write and erase

I write and erase

I write and erase

I write and erase

I stare

I write and erase
I write and erase

I think about process

I come up with synonyms

I stare

I erase

I stare

I put my head in my hands

I drag my face in my palms

I think about something else entirely

I look out the window

I think about the thing that
I don't want to think about or that
I haven't thought about in a while

I write

I write

I edit

I read

I stare

I publish

Kangaroo Vine

I used to wonder all the time

about the houseplants you grew

in the window of your studio

or how long they'd been there

climbing the bookshelves

hidden under years of dust

lovers of all creeds

layered one on top of the other

peering down and dangling

studying your body

the way it had changed or stayed the same

since the last time you'd loved them

like you were loving me

long-distance only child of a divorced father

Is there a word for
the way that my worry
wells up in the middle of my chest
and condenses itself
into a magic 8 ball

I want to shake him sometimes
when we talk on the phone
and I hear his hacking cough
I wonder if he's really

cutting back on smoking
outlook not good
walking to the rock river
cannot predict now
wearing a mask in the grocery store
my sources say no

Husband

I look at you from the couch
and I give it a try in my head

husband
husband
husband

I don't think you notice
you're grinding coffee beans
and considering the crows
flying by the kitchen window

husband
husband
husband

I appreciate the vowel sounds
the transformation of s into z
I wonder why anyone would ever say "hubby"
for any reason at all, ever

husband husband husband
my husband
this is my husband

you write a word so many times
that it starts to look misspelled
you say a work so many times
that is starts to lose meaning

husband
h u s b a n d
huh-z-bend

husbandry is the cultivation of crops and livestock
I'm no cash cow
I don't think I'd win at the county fair

but maybe he could till my earth
water me through my droughts
and see to it that I grow

Outdoor Bleach

First I noticed how it feels

like I've been hit by a truck

I wonder if my mother cleaned so deeply

because it made her whole body ache

and maybe that made her feel

like she'd earned the pills she'd take

meanwhile I hesitate to take an Advil

after I've peeled myself 

from the comfort of a Sunday bed

in a house I hesitate to decorate

In a single weekend

I have given myself her hands

the piano fingers she passed down

now have the kind of cracks

you get in your knuckles

if you scrub something barehanded

when you should have been wearing gloves

My skin still smells like outdoor bleach

which might not be any different

from indoor bleach, I'm not sure

but no matter, it all smells the same

like the afternoon open swim

at the Tualatin Hills Aquatic Center

I bury my hands in my palms

and take a deep breath in

I am riding my bike with the boys

losing my baby teeth in chewy candy

in the hour between two open swims

I am standing with my toes curled 

at the edge of the diving platform

considering jumping in, afraid of being pushed

Saying Goodbye

On a Sunday night, on someone else's porch,

Danika gives you the kind of kiss that you float home on

that casts you as a protagonist in a John Hughes film

It doesn't matter that she's leaving tomorrow

or that you're only telling her now

about how long ago you wish you'd done this

What matters is how lost your fingers are

in the thick sea of blonde hair

crowning her head

Or how good it feels to have your warm face

cradled between her small, cool hands

your bottom lip held between her teeth

Venipuncture

tw: needles

"Now is the time to look away."

Turning my head to the right

introduces me to my neighbor

and I wordlessly acknowledge her

the similarities in the way

we've piled our hair on our head

and the clothes we both wear

I wonder if she also left the bed

to leave the house, and if like me

she'll crawl back into it

when this is all over

Turning my head to the left

introduces me to the needle in my arm

that's usually hidden with gauze

by the time I return to center

so I don't normally memorize

the angle that it sits in my vein

or the gauge of its hollow body

one tube inside of another, 

this strange, warm river inside of me

with life and death on either bank

1891

My great-grandfather was born in 1891

a first-generation American

to Scandinavian farmers in Wisconsin

and thousands of miles away

in Washington, the house I now live in

was built in the same year

Recently his wallet was mailed to this house

with its contents intact:

an identification card with no photo

listing his wife for emergency contact;

small cursive words tell me

that between registering for the draft

and renewing his driving license

his brown hair went gray

The leather and thread, tri-folded,

has held its shape and done its job

much like the floors underneath my feet

nailed by strong hands and burnished with oil

passed from one steward to the next

I think about physical labor 

whole bodies raising barns

whole bodies birthing babies

whole bodies living out lives

thousands of miles away

hundreds of years apart

and how they build on the same earth

and are buried under the same soil

Shomer Shabbos

Give me that hand of yours
With its dry, dishwasher skin
Stretched over every knuckle
And let me hold it in mine,

Thumbs stacked and fingers folded

I've emptied my pockets

And there is nowhere to go

We can walk circles all afternoon -

It's the first clear weekend since Halloween

The sun has melted the icy sidewalks

And now it's thawing our skinny-limbed bodies

Kept warm in the clothes

We borrowed from each other
Earlier in the afternoon

Nellie

I could sit on the floor all afternoon
with my legs draped over
the body of a sleeping dog
and my hands bearing the weight of my body
so that we can both have it all
the comfort of closeness,
and the warmth that comes with it
kindred spirits, two hounds,
one howling songs about the moon
in the direction of the other, 
her paws bearing the weight of her head
so that we can both have it all

The Way He Held My Hand

Reminded me of how

two hands

might secure

the muzzle of a dog

Clean Slate

My morning alarm
goes off in the kitchen
so that I don't hit snooze
roll over, and go back to sleep
for nine minutes at a time

New year, new me
now I toss my blankets aside
walk through two rooms
reset it for an even thirty
and return to bed

Mouse

"They're finding their way in," he says
as he puts down another trap, and then another
in the strangest nooks or the restaurant.
I see his arm reach behind a fortress
made of highball glasses
and I imagine a brown mouse
stirring my drink
and peeling the skin of an orange
toward him, somehow, without mouse thumbs,
leaving behind a trail of snowy pith.

Eric saw one once,
standing upright near the window
as if to blend in
amongst the prep cooks
ready to mandoline radishes half her size,
"yes chef" in her mouse mouth. 

But later that night, a trap worked
and it was only half what I expected:
its small body stuck in glue
and still revealing half of the product logo
somewhere between an advertisement
and an admonishment.

It writhed in silence
and I wanted to cry, filling the space,
soft and green, scooper-up of animals.
With the same tenderness,
Kyle navigated around me
and moved the trap with his left hand
into the trash bag in his right hand.

Obvious Subject

I have written and erased
a dozen poems tonight
and none of them are sticking
because I have written you
a dozen poems already
and it seems my days
of writing you poems
are behind me now
you are sleeping in the other room
there is another body next to your body
I made the bed for you
and I will strip it when you leave
and that is alright