Heights

 

root root root like a baby for a breast

 

as I see myself squirm for approval

 

& how did I end up with a job where I help women

decide how they’re going to get their babies

out of their bodies

 

Isn’t that really bougie said the drunk man to me

& I said I guess so with a weak apologetic smile

like I need to defend what I do with my time

to some motherfucker

 

but of course I do feel like I need to define

what I do with my time to motherfuckers

like how I earn my money is anyone’s business

but my own but it is because being me or you or she

 

means having to justify anything like your crocodile

pocketbook or your red-cheeked children & how you got them,

& why. I can write thinkpieces & reload,

 

hoping for a chorus, but honesty is only one way out.

We’re here in the ether, effervescent in our constant reimagining

 

of what it means to be a person with a checkbook, a conscience,

& a sex drive. It’s harder than I thought said my friend,

like lonely bursting frustration is a new invention for our age,

head-shaking, a shame, the crazy price of stamps these days

 

& shoes scattered everywhere on the closet floor

when suddenly someone’s toddler bolts forth

& springs out across the yard like water from a hose with a hole,

 

the sharp embarrassed scream in the scramble to

 

gather everything, put it back, & zip.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Candied

 

Is anyone really interested in you

other than your mom?

 

You’ll never get out from under

the gas-scented ghost of Sylvia so stop

 

trying. Remember that your vagina

& your identification with your vagina

 

is your currency.
Curse.

 

Go ahead & didact like you tap

dance. You don’t have enough

 

heart to grieve for everyone

so pick your cause

 

& start fundraising. You’re too old

for crazy-cool self-destruction but

 

you’ll still be seen sniffing bourbon

suggestively for the whiff

 

of the wild. That bit of violet

that whips

 

& what you can say about it.

How you can spin.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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