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the baby stands in the hands of a man
outside the new cafe
having seen treats handed to dogs
he tries to offer the treat in his hand to the dog
he’s the community baby
the man tells us
he never cries
he’s handed between a clutch of folks
all of them are his
he doesn’t smile
he regards each of us
with his precise eyes
standing in the man’s hands
he’s halcyon
knows nothing but standing
having seen standing
so why not aloft
above the dog
over the sidewalk
in the care of the street
in the hands of the sky 

S sneaks CD jewel cases into a paper bag
Along with plastic apples and bananas

Calls it “grocery shopping”
She’s thrilled to have a job

Now stuffing them into a garbage bag
Nothing if not helpful

Did you wear your headphones
In the grocery store? my wife asks

I hate when people do that
Like it or not it’s my entire life story

Even at 43 listening to the new album
By a 29-year-old as I attempt to ferret out

The one box of organic raspberries
That won’t go moldy in two days

Drove home in a pink fog
with the peaks of a bridge
poking through

like the masts of some boat
I don’t know the terminology for
heading out

from the tidal river
to the sea with the town
we’d just blown glowing

in the pink fog behind us
In the morning, they say
it’s a good sign

In the evening much less so
Or I don’t know
maybe the reverse

You were late. I was
irked. I’d saved you
a seat in a packed room.
I was sad you’d missed
the poem about preparing
to one day wipe the butt
of the one you love.
During the Q&A
an older man was asking
more of a comment
and I turned around
and there you were
standing closest to him,
and your face was so
funny: Don’t do it, man;
don’t embarrass us all.
The debut of your face—
a nervous, warning petal
on a wet, black bough—
was a love poem, too.
We shared a slice of
cheddar-broccoli quiche
in the café, then went out
into the cold wind.
Steely rolls of clouds
with flat bottoms,
pale orange light below.
We walked the path
the tornado took
twenty years ago,
Iowa Avenue,
ripping off roofs
and hurling cars
into trees. No trace
of it now, and barely
a hint of spring—
only the first few
forsythia petals
which you made sure
I noticed (I might have
walked on by) and the
Nanking cherry blossoms
neither of us could have
named had I not
stopped to feed them
into my app before jogging
to catch up with you.
You don’t care about
the names of things,
but you care more
than anyone about
the direct encounter,
raw and holy as the wind
piercing our skin
as we headed west,
blowing my pink
pashmina into my face.
Suddenly warmer,
I didn’t swat it away,
I just followed you
blindly down
the boulevard.

Aunt Kathryn said salt and sugar shot out of Dutch show chickens inhabiting the golf course since before she was born, since before the war before she was born, and before golf was invented.

Every Sunday, the strongest boy with the smallest hands shoved pellets of imported grass and gravel down their gullets. The problem was, when laughing and lights from night parties woke the chickens up, they marched into the ballroom and climbed up peoples’ pants and pantyhose, onto their laps, and flew at their heads… 

Or was it Aunt Marilyn? “They seemed like bikers, but their growing brains just wanted to party”? Oh, that’s a Marilyn statement, all the way. That just. In Marilyn’s stories, animals always won. If they lost, she’d slash your tires, and she was an excellentgolfer.

In Kathryn’s stories, she’d bred Fluffy Dutchers all her life. And her father’s father’s father. Here’s a photo of three she defaced with her initials. Salt was for packing wounds— sugar, too (see “Sugarfoot K.E.K.”)—before, during, and after wars—and to make War Pickles, dipped in iffy cream. 

There is a kind of self-betrayal I am choosing to ignore. The kind that knows before it knows,
what one could call intuition, what I could call not running. When I was talking about
vulnerability you were on your phone. Desire is so embarrassing. This morning we saw
the blue lump in the middle of the street: the neighborhood rooster met its demise.
I cried later, for rooster or desire, I’m still not sure. You send me a black and white photo
of white roses in bloom. I’m already so tired and yet there is still so much life left.
I am constantly reminded of the first day I met you, how it was as if I knew you immediately,
some ancient call, across universes and timelines. If today is resurrection day
why do I feel like never getting up again? That, too, is an act of self-betrayal.

Come to me she whispers               But what about          the potatoes 

Fingers that taste         like butter         sweet then sickening            Excuse me,

A sickness rushing           A tightening of  throat       An alarm going off

oven is pre-heated    Put  the coated potatoes      into the oven

The wave of heat remembering         Once a quickening          of the heart

Seems like just the other day               Like any ordinary day     then a kid

Been at this         at it for a decade      What comes in tens?             Not eggs

The waterfall trail through the gorge doesn’t
open til mid-May. The steps are muddied,
too slick in April, the chance of slipping
greater. But here’s the thing – I did not ask
protection from stupidity and most
especially not mine. Doesn’t everyone
drive in this country – the risk inherent
in roads dwarfing a wet set of stone stairs –
no? What I’m trying to say is why not
let me choose my own beauty-strewn route to
harm? Harm of dripping slate. All good has gone
off. Even loving boys is fraught. Wintered
rot thaws. Grown, mine still petrify me – thoughts
expiring under fell froth and bone noise.

but for fucks sake is sound a mirror of sound
tone of tone language is a gesture
the way the horizon rends two directions

Storms again.
A hanging
cable writhes
too snakelike.
Bare black
walnut branches
wobble.
The word
of the week,
the season,
the presidency.
It has something
to do with the sky,
by all accounts.
As above, so
below. We live
on just one arm
of the fractal,
they say.
But there are
glimpses,
like Dad waking
you and your
sisters up
in the middle
of the night
and marching you
out to a dirt road
in the northern
latitudes with
orders to look up.
You saw a soft
white scarf
slung over the dark
shoulders
of the night.
And that’s our
galaxy.
Shearling Way,
Silken Way,
Cotton Way.
No use crying
over the wonders
of the cosmos.
What to feel,
then? Not quite
awe, not a dream
within a dream,
not only cranky
from being
yanked from
sleep, but
something like
alignment.
The compass
snapping north.
You saw a piece
of the path
you were on.
That you’d run
from this dirt
road and travel
to distant
stations.
The seasons
would spill,
the years
stack up
like bangles
then spiral
back around
when the light
slants at a
certain angle,
when gardenia
conjures your
play perfume,
when an old
song crackles
through
the radio
and swears
it saw the sky
break.

I’m not sure I believe the summary
of the experiment

of the women
and the piles of worn shirts

The collared and the torn
The frayed elbow

The scuffed snaps
flaking white paint

Laundry is pretty concrete
You’re washing & folding

a shared idea once
or twice a week for years

Gently putting each other
into neat little drawers

You do mine
& I do yours

I used to love space and now a photo
Of Earth makes me nauseated

Shit happens for reasons I can’t explain
Like how I used to detest olives

And now I could eat them by the handful
Maybe the zodiac messed with my gut bacteria

Maybe there’s something to be said for
Instagram astrologers crashing out on the feed

Still annoyed with myself for seven days
In Greece and not a single olive

Maybe I’m entering my villain era
Or maybe it’s finally come to a close

I have yet to teach my child
If there are roses there are thorns