an essay where everyone looks at the sky
the sky, a broken robin, clipped from the neck down.
beneath the robin, a diagram on how to conjugate
the sky. I am regurgitating my youth & now
the sidewalk is messy. I never not loved
the way you look in the sun, in the milk
of the moon, in the 60-watt lightbulb
in the lamp in the living room,
so I write a letter to death to say, please
don’t say hi, manners are for the birds
& if you come, come for me first.
see, my mother is still alive, thank god.
my father, too. & it wasn’t the cancer
that took my grandmother,
but the absence
my grandfather that did.
an essay about marriage
my dreams are decades apart, but in each of them a moment: a crimson sky rises then falls, the terror of a country lost as it just, in a blip, falls off a map. & so I go to the moon because I can, & I stay on the moon because I can. & I’m on the moon, which is cool & all, but it’s like shit do I miss you. I miss your nose & the eskimos who taught me how to kiss it. I miss the songs I never sang to you, & your feet swollen & sore as you carried me from one feeling to the other.