Body Shame, Enumeration

                     Here are the
                    iron gates and
                     the waves of
                     heat and the
                      parliament
                       of weeds

    Notenough toomuch notenough too
   much notenough toomuch notenough
         Too Much           Much Too
         Much Too           Too Much
        Too Much            Much Too
           Too                      Much

         crawl        like         worms

      up        my          skin    violence

    of            braille          writing    up

  all      the       things       I        do    not

      otherwise        say     Slash     and

  Give me                             the overflow
         a machete          to catch
                    and a bucket
                       PERMIS
                        SIOND
                         ENIE
                            D
G  r  i  n  d                    m e  t o  b i t s


t o  m a k e                   y o u r  b r e a d


F  e   F  i                       F   o    F u c k


I  t  c  h                        a  l  l   t  h  e

w  a  y  h                      o  m  e  i  f

t  h  e  r  e                    i  s  a  h  o  m

e  a  n  y                      m  o  r  e

H   o   r   s  e                 T r a n q u

i l i z e r s                      E   l   e  p

h  a  n  t                         G   u    n


 

This Is Not a Poem About a Dead Bird

Today I saw a dead bird
and it didn't make me want to write a poem.

That's how I knew everything was going to be okay.

I mean, not everything. Clearly the ice caps are still melting,
the planet is still warming. World hunger is
still an issue, and local hunger for that matter.

I am still a poet with great bohemian passion but very
few employable skills.
Perhaps what I really knew was that nothing
was going to be simply okay, but that
I, truly the only arbiter of what okay even means,
would be okay.

I am okay.

There was a dead bird, and I am okay.

Anna, As I Resign

I want to tell you how Anna does magic.
It isn't couth, I know, to reveal these things,
But I feel I must speak in my own defense.
The magic is that her hazel eyes do exactly
What they promise. True, there is smoke
And a whirl of black crinoline, which
Under normal circumstances would lead
One to believe some legerdemain has

Occurred. But it hasn't. These are the trappings
Of Anna's overflow, the lagniappe.
The magic is in her joyful elocution, in her
Determined hollandaise, in her Northeastern
Nonchalance. If you weren't paying attention,
You might not even know or mind
That you had been ensorcelled.
After spoons and spoons of enchantment,
I realized that Anna's magic is exactly
What it claims to be, and the only illusion is this:
That I could ever
Love her
Enough.