after this week.

religion

ink on your fingers
peeling citrus skin
crusty griddle
full of my self
cowlicks
how-are-yous that mean it
synced cycle w/ you
cat feet
hearing seagulls
wild attraction
the softness.
your hand right here

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thx god.

to god:

who is so purple.
who gives me nice purchases at CVS,
like sapphire lipstick and caramels.
who reminds me to include a dryer sheet.
who grants me seat c on the airplane.
who holds my pee a little too long.
who tells me my belly is soft.
who shows me a person unwrapping a big cookie.
who texts me skull emojis.
who presents a deer’s slick gut.
who nudges me to buy texas toast.
who drinks bulleit rye with me.
who kneads, opens my thick tight hamstrings.
who emails me my password.
who remembers centipedes make me gag.
who smells like gasoline and sounds like a soda can cracking open.
who lights my candle.
who waits for the yoga teacher to touch me.
who stains my fingers with beet juice.

domestic

sisters washing dishes

there are people moving,
arguing, laughing around them

but for the sisters,
only suds popping slow and
dull dish clinks

as if a spell has been cast.
as if they are filled with the warm water;
the task is inside the sisters.

brushing wet onion from plates,
each staring out the window above the sink,
each staring at a different plot of sky,

handing each other pans to dry.

 

civic duty poem

jury duty

waiting w/ a book and a pulse.

w/ the pack of gum slipping from my pocket.

w/ you and your soft swallow.

and w/ you and your peach yogurt, spoon scraping the bottom.

w/ eye contact w/ you.

w/ your dropped quarters at the vending machine. w/ me craning to see your decision.

w/ my neckline too low.

w/ the whiff of vanilla.

w/ your jawline, your moving temples your cheekbones.

w/ the pink bug bite on your neck.

w/ scuff marks w/ hot July skin w/ sips of water.

w/ your sleep right at my shoulder.

w/ me not saving your seat.

 

NEW TWENTY NEW POEM

turn

i turn 27 and forget to shake the orange juice

i turn 27 and buy dr. pepper chapstick on amazon

i turn 27 and leave period blood on my sheets

i turn 27 and eat unwashed cucumber

i turn 27 and tweet about it

i turn 27 and can’t think of the name of that band

i turn 27 and want bone shoulders

i turn 27 and become a WYPR member

i turn 27 and do kegels

i turn 27 and type bad poems about good people

i turn 27 and stalk you on the internet

i turn 27 and try to hear the cells in my body

i turn 27 and cry about the sad hot ocean

i turn 27 and cry about my cat’s soft fur

i turn 27 and try to remember 23

i turn 27 and call my gps a dick

i turn 27 and drink seltzer water O N L Y

i turn 27 and realize i’ve never loved one pair of sunglasses

i turn 27 and linger in the cereal aisle

dodger, 2002-2016

ode to old dog

i know you remember
as you close your cloud eyes
jumping on the green couch
settling between my legs
bearded chin at my knee
as i cried and told you about
the boy who doesn’t like me back
the failed math test
how nobody understood me except you.

flying out of me

dead batteries

all of my wrist watches are dead
but i wear them anyway.

yes, i’m being that girl, the one
with beautiful messes, the everything

not on purpose; babe with bedhead;
venus with sliced vice.

i remember circling  gift stores,
a furious search for tchotchke

to knock around my heart forever,
to pump important nostalgia and gloom,

to remember the vacation out west when i
got my first period, blood on the shower floor,

dry heat and canyon dust stuck to my young young parts.

 

i am a queen

i am a queen

i don’t hate my thighs, i love them.
i don’t like cardigans, i hate them.
the smells of peanut butter & diesel & subway bread arouse me. maybe it’s something to do with pavlov?
in psych 101 i learned about pavlov and that lesson has stuck.
it has stuck and so have you. so has this incense burning, mating with the fibers of my favorite tank top, mixing with green weather and weekend.

…already forgot a daily post. so here are 2!

eagles part II

tap the top of a soda can. explore what calms you. if it’s jazz music,
listen to la vie en rose. cry about good friends. cry about good soup.
cry about dead bald eagles. cry, cry. read literotica. write literotica,
if you want. think! your ideal sexual scenario, all your own. notice
2pm. wonder who else noticed 2pm. eavesdrop. judge what you
eavesdrop but also don’t judge. touch your lips. let them chap.
this just means they’re part of an active lifestyle.