239. This time, I put out the fire.

For all of our synchronicities and golden threads,
I have not even seen your hometown.
I'd like to learn about the sounds
your chest makes, what elements exactly
are needed to create such a person.

The morning finds my crown
on the floor. When we are good,
your body is the hand of a clock
striking into my hour and we are brilliant,
explosive, all of the fireworks
brought to the party. When we are bad,
it takes you longer to make your way back
to me and I search your skin
for the remnants of other people.

Inhaling, I taste you in my throat.
One of us is the trophy, here.

238. 2013

January.
Being eaten alive,
my mother's suicide,
all of the cake and disappearances
after.

February.
My birthday.
The sound of a crash
coming from the kitchen.

March.
Counting years (ten, nineteen).
When he left, they told me
I should celebrate.

April.
The names I gave myself
and the places I forgot them
in.

May.
There is too much quiet
here.

June.
The sun found my skin
again. Discipline. I do not know
where I am.

July.
I burned your life
to the ground.
I'm sorry.

August.
I am almost far enough
away.

September.
Cancer, a body covered
in blossoms.
Help me be better.

October.
Nobody ever stays dead.

November.
Filling holes in the front yard.
I don't mean to love you still.
Turn red, turn
white.

December.
Honesty
that we are done
outrunning. Finally,
finally.

237. Love letter, lost letter.

My legs
are maps of the blacks and blues
of the acres we failed
to put between us.

236. Direct

Not here. It has been many months
and none of us are tired anymore.
We can draw perfect circles,
eyes closed, humming our favorite song
backwards.

My friend tells me Venus is retrograde
and this means we work inside ourselves
and in forty-something days something about it
is supposed to end up on the outside.
I'd like that. For this to survive
on the outside.

Thing is, most of the time,
you open your mouth so wide
you're afraid you'll turn inside out.

And there is so much time spent
being afraid.

Preferred: No more room for sorrow here.
No more nights on the lawn of city hall,
no more accidental landings,
no more stolen washing machines.
We are both a window and a door.

Last night, Christmas, I don't remember the weather
but we almost got exactly what we wanted.

One: I think you belong to South Carolina.
Two: The landscape shakes
when you talk.
Three: You would like to not see another winter.
Four: When you've been drinking,
you ask me to go with you.

I don't like the snow either,
but I am New England and New England
is me. If I am with you, then I am a softness
that my body cannot afford
to be.

Yours.

235. Birthday celebrations in your early thirties.

You have the legs
of a wild animal
and my voice is too loud
to make you stay anywhere.
You burn yourself alive, I love you,
I love you, and this is where I leave you
one more time. It is
the ugliest circle,
and I've run out of sheets
to throw over it. Give me gasoline.
Quiet now, hand to mouth,
we are always living
hand to mouth, which is,
for all intents and purposes,
backwards. This time,
I will start a war.
"You see beauty
and I see something else."

234. *

Remind me how north feels.
I have let many things
slip through the gaps of my fingers.
I could let
a whole galaxy crash to the ground
if I look far enough away.
I do not devour.
I'm only tired
of cutting myself open.