I slipped out somewhere between
Lord hear our prayer and I am not worthy:
Babies being baptized on a million dollar altar.
You make life look improper,
Like dying isn’t dirty.
Her strong ankles swell.
Mine, they just buckle.
And you can’t look at your mother
When porcelain babies are all
You can handle.
We only wiped spaghetti on your Shirt because we wanted to get to know you.
"On cold days a man can see his breath, on a hot day he can’t. On both occasions, the man breathes" (Zadie Smith’s White Teeth).
I would come running.
the heart falls where your chest is
and now a piece of me is a piece of the beach
and it falls just where it needs to be
and rests peacefully
so you just need to breath
to feel my heart against yours now
I think it’s good we won’t have to share doorways or change paths any more. We won’t have to feel bad any more.
FaceInHole.com, how could I have deserted you all semester? Let’s spend the whole night catching up. In the morning, I’ll fix you a fine breakfast. Whatever you want. Together, we’ll watch the sun rise.
If you want to die, do good. Darnay: I gave him love, my name. Rolled head from guillotine. Spare parts, loose change. Not for love of life, not for legacy. Simply put: I despised all of France more than he.
There’s that dream,
the one where everything’s
the one where
waves don’t crash— your wooden body slides across
fleshy planks. Back and forth, you’re not on a voyage.
You are no sailor.
Nebula letters and vintage planets
billow over heaps of paper
between lose ears,
and all at once
you realize you know where you are
before you forget where you were
(Dear God, how far?) You realize
time is those kinky-linear shoelaces
your mom found at Big Lots;
it knots folds and frays,
completely comes undone
rounds up and backs again.
And you! The Shoelace Tier, the Aging Orchestrator!
Gliding over weird metal waves
(still not crashing)
trying to remember
(you still can’t remember)
how many loops the bunny ears make
before heading back down south.
You sent cards for our birthdays.
You called from a land line.
you called from your son’s phone.
you crinkle your thin nose
and you tense tissue lids together.
You press your ageless tongue
to your soldier lips:
(you never will forget)
(From behind foursquare gardens,)
you sign for two.
i just want to be a skinny critical theorist who eats bread all day.
Yesterday I baked you brownies with boxed
cake mix. I’m fairly certain that I forgot to
rinse the eggs before cracking. But some really,
really fucking impressive people
say you don’t need to
wash the shells. Also you should know
I was so excited to mail your care package—
I’ve been planning it for weeks. But I was running late so
I prematurely extracted them from this oven and
doctored them with my hair dryer set on COOL—
all before swaddling them in saran wrap,
condensation gathering in the wrinkles, inside
the easter basket grass and construction paper
hearts and other artificial plastics
that are supposed to tell you—
that from all the way over here—
I love you
and that, that’s sincerity.
Even Chicagoans cry over dead two year olds.