Friday, October 16, 2015


You and I have now been together long enough to go through three
bottles of tequila
longer than it sounds since
I mean the ones I buy in one point seven five liter casks. Cheaper
per ounce that way
thriftiness my Mormon mother instilled in a home whose filmy
residue still sticks to my skin.

* * *

I know a Honduran woman who has a face that assures
me that existence is ultimately
in the same way that crisp
sweet October apples do. I teach her English with pop songs. She asks if
the ‘ache’ in ‘heartache’
is the same as the ‘ache’ in ‘headache’
I say yes and wince
at the lie. I remember the excruciating
shine over her eyes
when she told me that she has not
been to her own country
for fourteen years
and my mother die three years ago and I never see her again

Where can home possibly be?

I have been unmoored for quite some time now
and you, too, my love
are in

* * *

I watch you in your half-lit living room, dancing around and playing
the bass and I think you’re so sexy but not
the thin, watery, popstar kind of sexy.
You’re the kind of sexy with all the texture and the weight
and the reality of a thick

I didn’t know that you loved Tori Amos so much and your rapture makes me wish
that I had stuck with the piano. I bask happy in your

of sound and vitality

the thought surfaces
like a cockroach
swimming up through sifted flour:

I remember
that one day you will die
and I realize
that I now care about this.

I see it: a slit of the yellow light of Home
falling out of a gray stone wall

and I go in.

No comments:

Post a Comment