ii.
at thanksgiving: a fat red-eyed bulldog named princess
drools in the corner while family friends toss doubt
about someone’s love interest. something funny about
him. everyone accepts this as indecent, the flowers
with their stamens winking in the breeze. they all
up end choosing a side. carving the flesh with their
teeth, hyenas cackling over something rotting.

iii.
in the auditorium, a drone of laughter erupts at the
backhanded beheading of the lilies. i sit, squirming,
praying the thousand searchlights won’t catch me
with my mouth full of honeysuckles. or praying
they will– that is, praying i’ll have the strength to be
a venus fly trap, act sweet and sticky to lure their
pollen before i swallow all their jokes whole.

—

see: flower boys of south korea

dusk at spring familiar . always-known . brings me
to the memory of a day . a story then too . you know

who you look like? i must have dreamt his face once
our passing always on the tip of my tongue . like salt

sharp & distant . i swear someone’s slipped me
the end of this story before . how to cook breakfast

spoon it into each other’s palms . a script clear
as rooftops set alight by a sun’s dying roar

bone-knowledge . the shapes of cheekbones & where
to rest my mouth . heavy in my spine as soil

i blinked alive always-knowing how to love this way
old magic love . solid as a city’s silhouette

At times, my heart is a mapless minefield. One minute I’m sitting on a couch with my lover, and the next, I’m at the bottom of a well, staring at the distant moon of sky. Then all I know is limestone, earthworm, shadow. Broken bits of furniture, what was once a lamp. My lover’s calls echo their way down to me, but the world above ground is too heaven in this earth. I lose track of my own name as I sit among the buried things, feel their black shapes, cut my hands on the bones, wonder at what terrible beasts left behind such thorny remains.

I drag myself from sleepwalk’s
sinkhole and leave, lists and listless
duty hanging off my elbows. Outside:
yellow light, barbecue smoke, a guy
singing on the corner, and I feel

nothing. High schoolers with bright
backpacks and loud jokes crowding
the bus; and I am not full, nor filled
with hunger for more. I am a tube of
toothpaste squeezed dry. Muscles

in my back are a packs of wolves,
an ache I cannot outrun. Tell me
why my calves hurts after so much sit
and still and dull crises clanging around
the aquarium walls. Tell me, what sort

of work is this? Where the body pays
for the sins of the mind, its vanities
and obsessions? Oh, work– urgent
to everything but my own salvation,
without even the holiness of sweat.

down the main artery of the post-
industrial West End: Bucklin Street,

a ghost town re-gifted to this city.
Somewhere past Bellevue and before

the old peanut factory I hear footsteps
from an alley and start tingling like

warfront– until the soft click of heels
waves me along. I am always ready

with battle cries but can’t lift my sword
without both hands and a podium. I am

too grenade with my protest, anger
targetless and everywhere at once–

useless. Fifteen minutes later, the only
blow Bucklin tosses at my feet is

a few words out the window of an old
Camry. Which might sound like treason

if I were a queen panning the river
for mutiny. Twenty minutes later,

I arrive at my boyfriend’s house,
unattacked again. This discomfort,

not quite sexy enough to be called
survivor’s guilt– just my souring fear

spilling out over the sides, a quiet and
shameful vomit staining my cheeks.