summer

on a single bed
blue fitted sheet

we tunafish our slick knees together
and i math the heat in my head until it reads
104 degrees fahrenheit in small sweat numbers
against your neck.

you make a pillow from an inside out sleeping bag
and i swoon
at the way you roll your wrists
or your zipperside in origami fold.

i hold you by the hips until we are squares.
you call me soon like you know me by name.

and when my mouth is moving around words i can't remember long enough to thread together with periods
you tell me
what i am most afraid to hear.

scared

i push it to the back of my mind.

in the dream the door is open
a bald man who looks like my lack of trust
has let himself in
a kitchen knife and carrots
he bends away from me, busy.

i move my feet towards him until he is a monster, wide eyed
chopping my freedom from me, at the ankles
and all i can do is sound

open eyes.

the warm man in my bed
listens with his arms
wraps a knee around me
until it is light.

morning

when it was time to wake up, she'd ring a bell.
it weighed about half a pound
small, copper, chipped on one corner.
she'd seen it in a movie once
tucked in beside her sister and father at a black and white picture.
a stout old man in a sunday suit
shook a large copper bell until a puffy black woman
rounded a corner in a white apron.

she had thought it was the perfect thing, kneeling amongst the old porcelain dishes, and dusty picture frames at an estate auction

to call her girls with. to remind them
that this life
was not a vacation.

every morning, the same.
she'd come in from the kennel, the smell of morning work under her arms, already sticking to the skin around her neck.
old blue jeans and a purple sweatshirt, she'd pull off her black barn boots by the front door, washing her hands in the large square sink.

she and the sun would've been up two hours, enough time to build a warm chest of resentment. two small girls, asleep in pink rectangle beds
she had paid for, dressed
while she worked alone in rows of wire cages
scrubbing circles around memories of her little golden girl.

that's nice, thanks

this morning while sipping coffee
i made puzzle pieces from your words
moved them around
til they were a train.

maybe, i'll show you.

it started raining today
while i was deep throating
mint lettuce mushroom wraps
on the floor
listening to a talk about how little
women are asked or heard in the news.

the numbers are interesting.

i mounted my wet bike.
the adjussi who smokes outside the door
told me it was raining
drippy cigarette pointing
at quick darts of water
clinging to my dress and thighs

i thanked him
took off down the street surprised.

step down please

you like him.
wake up in the bed beside him

a dark room, shutters clicked closed
your dark haired man three hands away
a faded pool of blood at your hip.

you say goodbye
swimming face down in his brown chest
fully clothed

climb down from him
onto your bike.
pedal, stop, step, pedal, sweat, step

home
put a day of work together
sipping noodles from cardboard cups and coffee water through a straw.

you do it to yourself you know.
but oh how
you love it so.

doubt

morning

you can't imagine loving someone again, although it's clear you want to.

it slips out
when you've had too much to drink
you apologize in the morning
the way a man would say nothing.


after

the gallery is closed
walk to the cafe.
catch glimpses of yourself in glass doors
in stares from couples in matching t shirts or hair color.

put your head down over a notebook to make something you'd like.
something from your hands that could be good.
connect with a woman over language, or stories about selves

honest
your history in cartoon outlines
hanging on a wall nearby.

different

you know
i'm not that girl
i say.
but

i look in the mirror and i see her
the same one
same color, and size and thickness.

i trace myself with a black marker
adding lines
sags around the belly and the breasts.

twenty nine, i mouth
twenty nine,

i ask him, if he likes me, using words
that wiggle less
but fall just as thin and storebought onto his friday night
beers from the refrigerator lined wall
flip flops and checkered shorts.

i wouldn't be here he says
im looking at the mint green chipping away on my left hand
the right fingernails, a pale beige
holding fast.