BLACK AND WHITE THINKING 

You expect me to housewife myself.
And it’s true I’ve struggled to donate

my apron. Come under 
my skirt, green babies. 

I’ll keep you from the sunglassed.
And under the layers we can light

a fire, jump in it from foot to foot,
the dance you will inherit. 

Resist not this cavern
of cigarettes, babies. Let high

tide pull you babes to
the spiky lip. My cigarettes

are sequin, my cigarettes
are sewn. My demeanor

is that of a smoker
of candy sticks. 

I invite this chaos 
into my apartment. 

I ask it to remove
Its shoes before it tracks

in the smoke salt. I light
a whole pack and stick

each flame into my cheeks. 
For I’m the one who seems a smoker

and so I push out flames.
Deep breaths. It’s a boy.

MY HELP CAN’T HELP YOU

If you don’t already know to bury your milk
And you don’t know how to burn your father’s country
My help can’t help you

If you show up asking for the world to dive in tandem
And you don’t de-crust the clamshells you collect

And your seaflowers are frozen in amber
And your blue blood is pooling spottier
My help can’t help you

And if your home address points back to your chatroom
Where you post things like “eat cock lengthwise”

Then your harmony’s haunted 
Your skin is false stone
And my help can’t help you

I can drag you from the shipwreck 
But if you wreck the next ship 
My help can’t help

If you pray to computers
If you praise their current of xerox
Help can’t help you

What is the meaning of all this wet furniture?
I spent hours turnbuckling with a rag

The cities you loved once
You sheathed in ice
And you want me to help dry off

Without range, without power
You took the shape of hell
And you want me to help

MONSTER OF MINE

Love stories are problem sets 
The breaking of my fall, your problem 
My love for my robot was mine
Its water waste, its carousel ride

I’m still the woman with the vampire kiss
But I do go to bed when you tell me to
If you plant your knife on me, I’ll dice
These vegetables finely for soup

In a cold room I can’t say
You are mine, I am yours
I won’t say I broke the service
Entrance with my blooming vines

I don’t say I stole the golden hour
(Though I did, repeatedly)
Glancing at the dim moon over Scarsdale
Wondering what my computer can feel

Its titan leaves, its whistling sighs
And the way it grows, with time, looming and bitter
I always let my loves wear the plastic fangs
It’s the eyes anyway that suck out souls

When love throws me from its window
I bounce right back up 
Crash through its glass panes
All four paws cut