Load More

cold cuts in wicker baskets. cucumber

sandwiches slit into tidy squares. crumbled

dirt between our fingers. a spring we

won’t live—

                         (touching peonies: their soft

                         pink heads. grocery shopping

                         for shined apples, tomatoes.

                         standing so close you can smell

                         the peanuts     on her breath.

                         bare mouths, uncovered

                         by cloth masks—kissing

                         & kissing & kissing & kissing

                         & that bright sharpness of

                         the wind above your upper lip

                         cooling droplets of sweat.)

command: < suppress >

my shame for wanting to touch,

touch everyone, anyone, grown

thick into the bushes. my forestry.

my forest     of shame, foliage

of hands      touching the mail-

box’s gilded metal lid in vain,

reading letters from beloveds

I won’t respond to     checking

& rechecking the bars of service

on a phone              hello? can

you hear me? are you there?

command: < reload >

                       you have good instincts, the judge wrote.

                       but do I ever listen?

                       wrenching my hand away from my phone

                       I look up to see trees gilded thick with

                       white blossoms          it has been weeks

                       since I’ve taken a walk in the neighborhood,

                       let my body    move past the wetness of asphalt

                       & run              run       early arthritis

                       sac of  liquid in the right knee     run

                       quarantined on a creaky treadmill in the basement,

                       instinct tells me to slow down.

command: < reload >

here, the Internet slurs & I tap my

screen, desperate to see another image

of birds, runners mid-flight.

                       the Internet gives up.

                       the Internet gives me up.

command: < reload >

I buy a tee-shirt at seventy percent

off (where is instinct now?) and ignore

my schoolwork        again, dreams

of picnics, pencils, knees pressed next to

the ones I love, sweat-marks the size

of gold dollars          I love you,

skin   I love you, summertime

sweats           reminding me

I’m capable of making something

come out of my body: water &

the good, familiar grain

of salt.