Fire Season

You had no idea.

That the silt on the windowsill kept piling up, debris of smoldered houses. In January, if you can believe it. Not
even fire season.

How the genius professor couldn’t sit still, and this aff ected me more than any poem.

He smelled of stale cigarettes, a ship called Homer.

That my problem isn’t a lack of meaning, as you had thought. It is an exaggeration of meaning. A densely
packed cube of wrought planted in my lungs. I’ve stolen many stones to alleviate the pressure, but you wouldn’t
know it.

That I started telling a better story about your disappearance, and it made me feel very wise. I who know
nothing.

How when I wear rips I’m inviting the men to reach out and touch the skin. A carousel of exaggeration. I am
always the one gifting opportunity, palms down, because I am a poet.

What if I were to change.

You will never have any idea.

Five Cloisters

Her marble eyes were modern, as docile and inviting as this screen. The baroque bust lacked the brilliance of
gold adornment. Instead, she favored robes of the time. Time being the sandal. She is my mother, looking down
at her ubiquitous God. This is how the world was destroyed. Above awe you will find us laughing.

What I Wish You Knew

Is that after you left a blue bird would come to the top window early each morning
rasping its beak against the thick glass

That when I eventually moved I would miss the knocking
and hoped the bird would come find me

Giulia Bencivenga

Tragedy has never disrupted my sense of self. That is a lie. Tragedy created me, a tear in the fabric of reality.
Another lie. The wind in my throat stirs without me knowing. My soul is an ancient pebble that skims the lake,
it belongs to you.

Everything Everywhere is Exactly the Same

Just remember time He says
and the rest will fall into place

But a hyena trapped alone with a lion will die

What I need’s my lost cackle
cross-eyed and drooling
with their great big female phalluses
then that lion’s ours

Give me a metaphor He asks
but I keep it to myself