crackle
squeezed between imprisoned cries
scratching my throat.
The afternoon clock mocks
âeach slow second a shard lodged in skin.
How can I ring up coffee
as though it is important,
when I canât imagine anything
being important
again?
Recipe for a Confrontation
Begin with
one hideous rumor,
two awful photographs,
and three cups of doubt.
Stir in
a difficulty nearly a whole week long
and five phone calls today
unreturned in a row.
Throw in three dashes of insecurity,
or more, to taste.
Bring all this to a boil and then simmer,
watching for the rime of bitter salts
that will accumulate along the edge.
When everything is the consistency
of hard, suppressed tears,
add, finally, his actual answering the phone,
and one longâvery longâand awkward pause.
Gently combine an accusation,
and three demands for an explanation.
Wait for him to say something.
And wait some more.
Your crust will begin to brown,
but do not open the oven too soon.
Listen
for the escape of steam from him
âit will sound like a sighâ
and his hesitant gurgle,
Well . . .
Only when everything
is burnt beyond denial,
and his explanations have boiled away, leaving
half-baked apologies you donât believe
will you know
for sure
that you are done.
Words I Never Thought Iâd Say
Iâm finished with you.
Donât call me.
I canât believe you.
I hate you.
Donât call meâ
ever
.
How could youâhow could you.
You are nothing special, and
I donât believe in youânever did.
You are just like the rest of them.
You are
just like
the rest of them.
You are just like the rest of them.
You are dead to me.
Amputation
My armâs been lopped off.
There it is
on the floor
not bleeding anymore but still
bloody.
It is an odd thing
âcoldâ
to look down and see a part of you
there,
but not where itâs supposed to be.
I look around my room,
see proof of
what it was to have two arms:
photos
of both entwined around another;
pillows
held closely in sleep;
scissors, pencils, dirty forks
once deftly used with the now-gone hand;
my closet full of
shirts with two sleeves.
It hurts too much not to have it;
phantom pains.
I pick up the knife
âI will figure out how to use it rightâ
begin cutting away at my heart.
Falling on Deaf Ears
Only a hour after
ending everything, my phone rings and it is
Alecâs number on the screen.
All the things he might say,
all the things I want him to say,
all the things he canât possibly say I
donât want to say anything:
press my phone
off.
Surreality
Walking through a misting fog
of bleakness all afternoon:
somehow my body has moved itself
from here
to here
âsleepwalking.
A terrible dream
only finally made real
when Momâs home-from-work hug surrounds me,
asking,
How was your day?
Camille
everyone is suddenly a lesbian
it mustâve been reading all that gertrude stein, or the special focus on womenâs history month, but innocent wednesday morning, and who suddenly made everyone a lesbian? first connor and autumn, apparently no longer just best friends but now hanging off each other and letting the sides of their hands grace the sides of their boobs so that everyone on the sidelines can see. then dorie admits loudly that she feels cold-shower funny every time she sees zooey deschanel in a magazine. next ellenâyes, ellen!âat lunch checks out daphne with different eyes, and when you get to your coffeehouse there are two girls tonguing each other on the front couch plain as day. you are trying to be cool about itâwhat do you care; you lived in san francisco you love lesbians youâre sure your cousin is oneâbut today you canât help but wonder with the sky so low and the humidity getting turned up, the baseball players suddenly leaving the field empty just like your inboxâyou wonder if the cosmos isnât just