all that’s left in my fruit box,
reds, orange, purple from watermelon
radish, roasted carrots, grapes, cherry
the brown bottom of the box.
into the butt.
what? this is poetry.
don’t roll your eyes at me.
I’m a god damn luminary.
the necropolis doesn’t have
nearly enough bones laying around.
take out your skinning knife, honey.
let’s see what we can do about this
my brain feels broken.
I find myself moved to tears too
& others. most days.
too many things were coming to me;
I had to put down the poetry
& write some.
every shy white girl I meet either
loves or loathes me. there is no
a sick looking avocado, a slice of ham on a thick plastic plate.
she scoops out interior and this is office lunch .
it’s queasy green inside this thick-skinned fruit, and I get outta
there before I can catch a squelch
with my ears . I got office fantasy bad this time of year.
it’s somethingaround the neck, it’s the heat, it’s a flinch of the brain
to halt that base boredom that lingers throughout office spaces.
no offense, but if I ever admitted my crush,
you look like the kind of girl that would say
‘ohh, nooo,’ while laughing, leaning back in your chair as the host
cackles along leaning forward, into his desk.
and the studio audience would all laugh, and I would HAVE
to put on a fake smile and sip my whatever-it-is-they-put-in-those-mugs
because let’s be honest people, it isn’t coffee, and do a little fake
chuckle and hope– god, I hope your husband isn’t waiting for me backstage.
Small spotted dog by the roadside paws around for something edible.
That’s roadkill waiting to happen.
Dark brown eyebrows & yellow hair is what I’m after. Nothing ever changes.
There is a heat that rises up off the road
this time of Texas. It is supernatural.
You don’t even have to be adjacent. Stand 100
yards from a hot blacktop and still get smacked
in the face by it while you were expecting a cool breeze.
Only shelter is underwater it seems
sometimes. You got your swim holes and pools all over,
but if they’re good, they’re crowded. Even in the parking
lot of some chlorinated oasis you can see that summer-ghost shimmer
spread out over the cars and soon-to-be swimmers. It ain’t even past spring yet.
Get pool noodles fast, buy water guns before the demand goes high,
and pack up on popsicles and push-pops; a simmer is coming.
Just you wait till. We’re gonna feel the boil this time, baby.
The wind will drop, clouds will cease to speckle the sky, and hell is gonna hit hard.
Being the boss on a summer day inside some police
barn, surrounded by children ages 9 through 10, I have to
keep my voice to a forceful stage whisper as to not startle
the horses. ‘No, no, wait for her to tell you it’s okay
to touch Titan.’ The policewoman’s name has escaped me,
but she doesn’t know mine. Wasps buzz about the cobwebbed
ceiling one child points out.
Next week a kid named Jesus is in my camp but all the other
kids call him Zeus. And they call Anya Ana. I’ve noticed things
this year I never have before: the difference between a dragonfly
and a damselfly; how our Australian Shepard mix sounds when she dreams;
the panic that accompanies a trailer hitched to a 15 passenger van; what
cheating feels like at the trivial level. Ending stuff is hard, and your advice
would be so welcome right here.