I'm looking for the good robin of everlasting sewing. Easy as a bed to bed. And his words are mints. My shock in the ghost of the guest of my boyfriend. First there is the Father. He would not like me to tell you about him. He is punching holes right now. Saying petit, petit, petit. Garbled—he can seem like a balloon. Such a skin. A kingfisher. We are afraid to touch him. Like too many nights of touching ourselves. He might plan to take us on a picnic. We must be ready. We must be hungry. I finished my blue necklace. She tries to convince him because he was here on earth. Dad quits his job for the umpteenth time. I'm wicked lonely. We are in a department store. I buy him a blue bracelet because it is right there. And I would wear it. I buy it hoping he bought me something for Christmas. This is never true of course. We talk about religion. Of jasper things in trees. He wears an engagement ring. I am shivery, full of V-8. He drinks too much and cheats all the time. All of whom he left behind in the Bible belt are singing Yes, yes yes We put our hands over our face, our neck. We are overcome, saying, "No, no. I can't. I can't."
When I Hated My Body
The elders gathered from the cornices of the island's arms and we had nothing to say. Even hedge funds with the power to hoover it up and offer it back like tightly packed cigarettes were silent.
When you were a child, your eyelashes were so long.
We used to call you pilik mata.
I almost posted this on "social media"
You eat like you are being chased.
You who are living. What is your responsibility?
Illuminated light and
holding the hymnal with your boyfriend,
I wanted the poems to breathe prettily,
to be ecstatic and extroverted citizens.