i’ll tell you this but i won’t

let you listen. see that turn 

of gray? trust is on the opposite side 

of a bitch child caress, tracing 

the path of a wet carriage 

across a cheek, temple, rib. how 

sinister the wait, the hellenic twist.

Because you were twelve once. Because you were sixteen,
fourteen. Because your cruiser cost a hundred dollars, because
you were tall. Because you bit your nails, because your lips were
always chapped, because your cheeks didn’t take much to flush,
because your father never treated you well when he had his 5
o’clock shadow. Because you were poor. Because you plaited
your hair, because your wrists were narrow, because you spun
with your arms pressed to your sides to feel dizzy faster.

dark-willed and jugular, the current

furrows so that it doesn’t bruise 

do all burgeoning painters break 

their hands over and over again? 

the gaptooth hiss, it sometimes pools 

a jaunt of self-sustaining second degree 

woman unto woman unto woman 

In this coin laundromat, this Metro, this underground lot. In this white Chevy pickup, in these stinging wood chips, in this beachfront tunnel. In this grass, wet and dry, cut and growing, in this abandoned airfield. In this sand sometimes, in this alley, this valley, this field, this pond. In this school, this auditorium, ballot in hand, in this control room upstairs, above this cafeteria. In this tap water, in this air. In this throat, this lung, this palm.

the lobby-waiting match 

it was a disbelieving age

an age, a time passed

fruit hung senseless, but low 

and still pulsing, pregnant 

an age of concession

those fabled lessons, idyllic

beasts to pray for

I want (for once) a husband, a man, a mass of body in the center of the room. I want (again) four walls and a roof and a kitchen and flowers in a vase on the dining room table and a cat with a collar with a bell that rings. I was a child bride and will always be a child bride. God has made a naif out of me, look how my hands tremble when you touch.