this thing grips

thinking on

all of the

fireflies i named

after constellations

while you were

in space

you once told me

your feet were meant

to be submerged in salt water

your guts came only

when the salmon

fought for home

but your head

belongs to the wind

so naturally i

never asked

about your

heart

because you

never said

you had

one

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slow dance

how many times

did you have to

drink whiskey

to remember that

my heart is

so ripe on

the vine

how many midnight

ravens did i send

to your windowsill

how many

forget-me-nots

grew in the wake

of your north feet

that summer

the trees went

to war

number 21

you shoved a

load of bread

and a few packets

of salt

on my counter

this is what my people

do

do you know the apartment

with the view of a brick wall

where i woke up to rain

bouncing off of the metal

pole snaking along the

building

counting your

dreams of

her

forget the paperwork

in hindsight

you were probably

just a lighthouse

in the middle of

my ocean heart

though

you should know

a lot of seafaring

hopefuls died

while we had

our love affair

had a dream about you

we prepare our own bodies

for death

bathe our skin in

moons shine

and fog

wrap ourselves

in award winning

spiderwebs

paint our eyelids

with bee pollen

vines wrap around

our legs and feet

and we are shod

we prepare our bodies

for death

every time we

orgasm

things that are holy

the way your face

becomes so soft

when you talk about

music

the corner where

startling yellow flowering

weeds crawl from

cracks in cement

underwater

listening to the sound

of the ocean having sex

the moment you

say yes instead of no

when your body accidentally

brushes against mine

fingers on the edge of the

table where

they made art

immortal

watching her dip

the spoon with sugar cube

slowly into her morning cup

describing brown eyes

with so much depth of

character

everyone forgets blue eyes

tall souls

making shadows

look like trees

reaching out across streets

to finally

fall in love

bring the girl

we were counting

schools of fish

in each other’s eyes

when you

curled into yourself

both fists under a chin

body in the shape

of a question mark

legs held together

by ankles

locked

“i guess this is how

our

death will look”

so i

unfurled my legs

began to spin

your

cocoon

The Bone Room

Margo worked at the local grocery in the summer months while the rest of her family worked at the lodge. She preferred the beeps and clicking from her register, the bouncing sound of a runaway orange, and the insect hum of wealthy shoppers talking of unimportant frivolities. There was ample air conditioning at the market, and none of the acne scarred teens who thought they were her boss minded when she read magazines during slow moments, one sensible shoe on and the other naked foot wrapped around her ankle. She usually only got through two pages of People before she regretfully slid her foot back into the right shoe.

“Can I go on my break, Chad?” she called out over the express lane. They were all named Chad or Chet or Chaz in that town. Chad waved her on and she plunked down the wooden carved sign that read Closed. She always brought her own lunch, even though she got a discount at work. Even with the 15% off, Margo couldn’t afford the expensive offerings of natural foods. Some days, if she was lucky, a few pieces of bruised and unacceptable for patrons fruit would wind up on the free table in the break room. Today she found an only slightly marred Pink Lady apple.

She hung her apron on one of the hooks by the back door and set off into the thicket of trees that the grocery store purchased to “protect”. No one ever seemed to want to wander much in the clump of trees, wild flowers with thorns, and rocky terrains, but Margo made her way easily to the dilapidated shack that was hidden under a mossy eave of rocks. She found it many summers ago before she was old enough to work and felt fiercely protective of her other home. The other end of the small forest backed into the lodge. Even though she was only eleven, her parents and brothers never much cared for where she went while they made sure their various guests needs were attended to. It wasn’t like any of the family members were exactly close. They brought home money from their various jobs, ate dinner in separate areas, and spoke as little as possible. It wasn’t as if they didn’t like each other. They just didn’t know each other. Besides, they were all pretending to be a family anyway. Not that anyone really believed it.

Brushing aside the branches that covered the small wooden door, Margo ducked into the little shack. She began to eat her apple, bruising and all. She stood quietly in the darkened room and inhaled the earthy smells, listened to the crunching of her apple, and waited for the voices of the bones.

They began slowly, rocking against her body in small lapping hunger. Each voice belonged to a different set if bones, each with a story of her own. Margo held the apple core in her fist, nails slightly denting into the clinging apple sweetness. As her eyes adjusted to the dimness around her in the small, spare space, age saw the bones. They were neatly laid out on rough-hewn wooden tables. Each created a sort of jigsaw of various body parts. Some were merely a piece of a hand, or a skull and vertebrae. All were clean and white, labeled with small pieces of taped paper next to them. In the six years Margo had been bone collecting, she had only just pieced together enough bones to make one small girl with her crushed wrist and broken skull.

Margo breathed into the stillness and thought of names for her only friend.

possibly sooner

ok now that i

am out of our

desert

(scorpion)

it occurs to me

that though it

looked like i

was greedy

when you showed me

two tear shaped grapes

like i unknowingly

chose to

eat the only fruit

that we grew that summer

leaving you with pinchers

raised

it really wasn’t me that day

it was the

dust

if you can be alone

forty five times

around the sun

i am holding a green plastic basket

of monochrome green figs

while

cicada’s do gossip

despondent feet

do circle

stolen moments

between trees

do steam

the fragrances of

aging rose queen

do wreathe

each of the figs is

sweating

until i

eat the very

last one