Victory Repeats Itself

But the whole entire time,
he was looking in my eyes
one by one–which took a long time
because I am a spider.
I do spider things, you know,
and these are my fangs.
But anyway, you know how sometimes
a morning looks at you, and you feel,
somehow, acknowledged? And then
everything you weave for the rest of that day
is stronger, more catching, and you can
carry on your spider business for a long time,
just from that one drop of water.

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February Bruises

She’s selling shit that she got as gifts.
I think I have lipstick on my teeth.
The sky pours out like orange juice,
pulp free, plus calcium and vitamin D.
We’re all a little depleted and pale,
a little bit like crusted salt-snow
between dogs’ toes or the hems
of dirty jeans, all prone to
faux pas, little gaffes,
February bruises.

 

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A Movie I Don’t Want to Be In

Every character dies.
Some just die more horribly than others.
The little girl unzips
like a slug
to reveal a pair of orchids.
The old lady stubs her toe
on everything she ever achieved
or knew,
pirouettes over her unmade bed,
and breaks her neck.
The bad, bad man–
not just comically bad
or rakishly bad, but actually bad bad–
goes quietly in his sleep
because no one every said anything
about justice, or meaning, or beauty.
I have assigned some beauty to the little girl
because I am not insensate,
a mollusk incapable of pearls.

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MLM

Maybe I can enable you to live
your wildest dream potential
in a forest of mushrooms
inside your own body.
You’ll never want to leave
once you’re safely tucked into
your armpit, there to rest, there to
catch the scent on every breeze,
to flehmen like the best kind of cat.
You’ll never know what hit you when
the pounds and inches melt away
and the money starts rolling in;
soon, you’ll be a tiny rich person,
a small butter cookie version
of your former fat self.

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Finding a Lack

My head in a basket
My head like a tennis ball
My head bouncing over next to your head
My head opening like a cherry blossom or like a cherry, rotten
My head rolling itself down at night like a metal shop grate
My head trying to make its own sweetness, finding a lack
My head knocking on your back door
My head borrowing a cup of sugar from you, my neighbor head

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But Today, It’s Enough to Be Near a Window

If you believe at 5:00 p.m.
some pink light on the eastern horizon,
then maybe you are no longer sick,
vomiting out of habit, hot and timeless
under a Hudson Bay blanket
with its six slash marks
to show you are a queen. If you believe
the light in the sky, maybe your whole family
can march forward now, ready for life again,
no longer bringing the inside to the outside
in such disgusting ways. Someday, you’ll deal with
the bathroom
(and other places, too),
but today, it’s enough to be near a window
when the sky goes pink, and here you are,
a witness once again.

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The Neighborhood

Come to the tree of make believe, my little owl.
Nestle at the feet of this princess, this lady
in a crown of long brown hair. We can always
ride this trolley; nothing ever goes away,
even after you turn off the TV. It’s still there–
just like you, it can’t slip down the drain.

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