Dear Lieve, 

I’m amused by you.
Wanting to go to heaven, even though we can’t possibly understand
what that is. If that’s where you want to be, I think you’ll go. Dogs 
and sorcerers and the sexually immoral. The messy
murderers and idolaters. And even if I don’t believe
in God, 

I believe God
could exist just for you
if that’s what you believe.
I’m wearing your shirt, which says You Wouldn’t Understand
across the front, while I sit on the bathroom floor with the mess
of old urine turning ammonia around me. Likely aftermath of the dog 

with incontinence issues who used to live here. Tomorrow I’m going to pick up a different dog 
my partner really wants me to love. God
can be messy
sometimes. You 
might think you understand 
what you believe, 

but actually, you just believe what you believe.
A lot of bad people have loved dogs,
so I don't really understand
how loving a dog can say the things about a person people seem to want it to. God
knows, they aren’t good or bad. They’re just animals who have a very specific method of belonging. I wonder if you 
know my life is messy. 

And not just messy,
but downright disgusting at times. You’re not like that. That’s why I named you Lieve.
It means dear to God, by the way. So I’ll send your shirt back in a ziplock bag after I wear it every night this week to bed and wipe my snot on the sleeve because that’s just what I do without thinking. And I’ll masturbate to memories of you
and wipe my cum on the hem of the shirt in the same thoughtless gesture. You’ll like that. Horndog.
Fucking sicko, god.
How can you be so heavenly and 

also such a bitch?
Nevermind, I’ll take it up with God.
I want to tell you I can so easily see you in heaven, and when we’re together, I feel like I’m already there. I want all the details of my life consecrated by speaking them into your ear. I’m sending you back your t-shirt because you told me you’re into body odor. And because it’s the most intimate gesture I could think of. And because I’m pretty sure you’re 
someone who actually does understand.

Poetry 

You’re like poetry with less words 
fine miniature defined
features painfully strained 
lightset skin stretched 
never got close to the bone 
never got anywhere with you 
never knew what to do 

I like poetry with less words 
and I like you
non-verbose
delicate doll-like 
butch by accident 
priceless pelt can’t you tell 
wanted to win
dove in couldn’t swim
oh well

Rebecca Shippee was born in Troy, NY. She attended Purchase College and graduated in 2013 with a BFA. She attended Skowhegan School of Painting and Sculpture in 2018 and graduated with an MFA from Yale University in 2020. She was a resident at the Atlantic Center of the Arts, working with mentor Eileen Myles, in 2022. She recently completed residencies at Sundress Academy of the Arts and Casa Ojalá. She currently lives and works in Seattle, Washington.