break eye contact with God

wipe your smile off my face

praise the state of—

capitalism

Denmark

the suit of clubs

replace each o

with an a

anthropomorphize

the internet

kill

its Frankenstein

body

stop counting

the calories

from our third date

change

change the locks

change the fraction

change it back

time myself

counting photons

on their way back

from Pluto

outrage the earthquakes

that bring me

to my knees

curl the earth

under each fingernail

breathe

some nights are three

paper-clipped between prayer

and poetry

some nights confuse

the relentless blue light

for the moon

some nights are mornings

gouged beginnings

to outlast

some mornings are three

a poem-prayer

I’ll never memorize

From here, the sound of you

swings left; my heart

wants you first and I

shadow. The day

we met, she kissed

you and I became her.

From then, the sound of you

was the ocean, the timbre

of waves lapping golden.

And you were my

missing skin and what

I know: when I met you,

a blue rush began.

after Carolyn Forché

i’ll unzip my taut

scapula to carpus

have you

trace

my butter-notched

survival

bare

a mirror

for your

excavation

my body is a yielding

ribbons

of meat—a

cathedral

linger

and you’ll recognize

your own

after Mandy Moe Pwint Tu

In another life, I find God

in darkness, tending

his flock of yeast—his

sourdough genesis!

He curates inedible births,

frothing jars of asexual

reproduction—no Adam

and Eve this time!

In another life, God

wears animal pajamas

to bed—generations

of creatures, un-sunk.

In another life, God sleeps

in—takes the weekend off!

No dominion for man.

In another life, I remain

un-made.

after Chen Chen

the moon beckons

a convalescence

a rehab of mind

when drug of choice

was obedience

and I’ve

come back

to sense

back to etched bright

on broken skin

a severance—gilded

reeling past

anonymity

a resurrection;

retch

of wilding

plucked mercy

from tender

earth

after Saeed Jones

The Hanged Man, in reverse.

am i off the hook?

has the world righted itself?

should i know who i am now?

The Tower, upright.

no. the world remains ravaged.

i’m just in the rubble.

stardust like the rest of us.

The Sun, never comes out.

the mondays and wednesdays belong to him

and i’ve been chasing the moon

slow-roasting wounds for a map of stars

Cards on the table.

i’m not really here.

i’m vacuum-sealed in a cabin, second planet from the edge of the universe.

i just wanted to know what love felt like.

after Jeanann Verlee

Dear E,

You asked if I needed time. Yes, with you. I need more time than my body can give.

I love you. You’re it. Full stop.

Dear C,

I wanted your hand in the sun but you just wanted a body to haunt.

Dear V,

We never should have happened. But I still talk to you in the dark.

Dear H,

I still hate your pedestal. I hope you liked the crash. I sure did.

Dear W,

You loved me a lifetime in six weeks. I’m sorry I left.

Dear A,

You can stop running now. I’m not there anymore.

Dear D,

I loved you first. You never had to say it back.

Dear R,

I almost believed you, you little shit.

Dear P,

I still don’t like you. Stop texting.

Dear E,

I love you. You’re it. Full stop.

after Jose Olivarez

a blue flame—gas-burner

temperament

a simmer

a boil

scarcely kindled

white

biding un-made

amidst blue

seething tendrils

at-the-ready

and I am

(a) livid

(b) heartsick

(c) unquiet

(d) hopeless

(e) everything in between

displaced

darkling whirlwind, uncoiled

a blitz

a raze

the aftermath—a

severing

onto island

of one

held breath

’til another

after Rudy Francisco

I deflect

and ask how they are

watch through their windows

to catch a mirror—find

a glint of a slip

do you also breathe different behind closed doors?

break bank to buy normal?

skin your skin because you know yourself?

Are we the same?

I find

they are asking about themselves

my non-answer for their own

a lazy hope

for tether

do you also let your wrists be pulled?

find your tears circling the drain?

watch me watch you and break cover?

Are we the same?

I lie

don’t disclose my bpm—higher

when I pretend, when my days reorder

themselves to bury truth and my nights—

exhume

do you also concede to the holiness of words?

need space to fall in love?

not sleep to memorize?

Are we the same?