When I woke up this morning, no one was sure I would make it through the day

Not me, not the pillows holding my head, not the sticks of incense
mourning their possible uselessness in my absence from this world

I rose from my bed a little shriveled arm cracked free from a cast

an ear cut from a face and thrown to the wind

a dislocated shoulder of impossible coordinates

At 11 I made coffee
At 4 I made an attempt to heal

At 6 I cried until my body was waterless

At 10 I sat on the floor of the shower watched soap
circle the drain while the water turned my skin red 

At 10:30 I put clothes on hangers and picked up pieces
of my heart and hung them to dry on the hooks that hold my earrings

At 11 the snow had piled up to my window on the second
floor, so I imagined myself within an igloo and made friends with my body

At midnight, the best thing: the hanging pieces of my heart
came together to beat once more

Between midnight and the moment of sleep, after the candles
were blown out and the only light was the moon and streetlights
reflecting off the snow and into my window to lie
across my floor, I thought I heard you whisper my name

but it was only the frost on the window melting from my heat.

Must we say goodbye with silence? 

What Is Left

It is only a small fear that burrows into the marrow of my bones

small like a black hole or the splinter in my heart

Seeking shelter or maybe sustenance, this parasite

suckles at loss and wanders through my body an orphan

To say the words in the dark that I cannot say in the light:

I am finished

What this means is that the chinaware of my heart has stopped

collecting dust and has shattered and rains on me wherever I go

Disregard the blood, it’s just a part of the process now

in fact, if you could consider it the red pen edits on this page
you might not find it so alarming.

The bones of my eyes are salt-sanded and fine.
They wait for you to excavate them.

They hold a meaning in their hollows, like a song in a flute,
like a message in a bottle.

This morning, breath rising through the thin air of winter’s sigh

I walked by a thousand smiles and every single one shook my heart

I swear the salt and ice beneath my feet whispered your name.

I will live again, but you won’t recognize me.

And maybe that will be our salvation. 

If I've killed one man, I've killed two--

And then we were finished. As if it never began. Or, as if it were yet to.

These are not real people you are speaking with. They are avatars of bank tellers and grocery clerks

They are fine replications, but they are not your friends.

Those you’ve begged for at the door like a dog, they are not good for you.

You are getting soft with souls.

When you lie down to sleep, remember you are not alone.

The weight of flesh from everyone who has ever lain

next to you has sunken into your mattress

like so many snake skins hanging on the wall.  

Like so many notches on the bedpost.

The numens who carve their names into your skull as you sleep

slip back into their place on the bookshelf when your eyes twitch open

and you wake with skin under your fingernails

We dare not say ghosts for waking the skeletons in the closet.

We dare not say goodnight for fear of who will speak back.

We dare not turn on the light for fear of seeing our own reflection

Resplendent with sweat and sex and totalitarian cheekbones.

 

At The End of The World We Fell in Love with Silhouettes

i keep cross-threading the light bulbs
while standing on piles of dirty laundry
rubbing my knuckles raw against the spackles

the smell of my memory is in these walls
(when i punched into pink fiberglass i saw my father’s smile)

the wallpaper is yellowed with our stares

the silverware is tinted with newsprint

clean isn’t clean ............it’s dissolution

lye eats away the layers of dirt and skin

heat activates the bleach
i burn my hands piling in the whites
chlorine steams up the basement window

make sure you store the glasses upside down in the cabinet
and hand wash the wineglasses so the soap doesn’t stain

drink this in remembrance of me

i made you a sweater from the lint in the trap
it was the shade of moon craters

i have been trying and trying and trying to clean out the attic

if i don’t get it done before the roof blows off will you forgive me the
many times your name has been scratched off and rewritten on the walls?

anything will do

i did

Will be done

i wrote my name under the welcome mat with the spare key

as it is in Heaven

i’ll leave the tea but take the kettle
i’ll leave the salt but take the pepper

don’t forget to look out the window on clear
mornings and count the seagulls flying inland