The sandwich you made for me,
fake cheese and fake meat
cut haphazardly when I stayed
in bed to keep a dream. I see
you toiling over the pickle jar
your hands struggling to slice
each rubbery vegetable thin
as I like it. When you bite in,
hours later and buildings away,
do you taste the sting of mustard
I taste, the room-temp, soggy
bread? Ours is a routine spell
cast each morning new. Where
else will I find my love for you?
TEN OF SWORDS
The island’s where the lonely people go
on Thanksgiving weekend away from home.
I came here to think things through…
Like, if I find all my father figures
trying to fuck me, does that mean
I’ve still got daddy issues?
At the petting zoo a penned-in pig
pressed his head against the grate,
mewling til my fingers grazed him.
Poetry means never feeling sated.
The moment I’ve met each #squadgoal
my mind switches to self-destruction.
Envy the women in mock snakeskin coat
calling Ready Girlfriend to her bae.
Where’s the emoji for being alone all day?
For the first time the male gaze
follows my miniskirt down the street
I reciprocate. I can’t write without feeling.
Can’t read without hearing your voice
in my head. Your hand on my leg
shows me the place you dream—
we can meet there in our sleep.
What does it mean that bed bugs
saved us from indiscretion?
Fruit flies followed from bar to bar,
hovering above our blurring bodies.
Vermin, medieval haloes of desire.
I heard a fly buzz when I read
my poems at Tony Roma’s,
the scent of ribs wafting over
like votive candles lit.
In bed I told my husband, “I’m your wife.”
He answered back, “a witch.”