Poems

The Theology of the Unmade BedThe light comes in through the windowlike a slow decision—grey and unhurried,catching the dust motes in a holding patternabove the sheets. You are standing there,weight on one leg,a simple shift of gravitythat rearranges the whole room. I look at youand the words pile upuseless bricksbecause looking at you—looking at the […]

The Stuff Of Itis not the stuffthe songs are built on usually—not the cinematic, not the cruellybeautiful tragedy or the impossible desire.The stuff of it is the lower temperaturebut the longer fire.The stuff of it is the negotiated morning,the accumulated warning signslearned to read in each otherover the stretch of the years,the specific signals and

The Support Group We meet in the church basement on the second evening of the month,The specific congregation of the dealing with the blunt,Reality of chronic illness in the carpeted room,With the folding chairs and the coffee and the afternoon gloom. We know each other by the condition and the story,By the medication and the

The Specific Sadness of Weekend NightThe specific weight of the last night of the week—I’ve had this since the schoolyard, since the bleaklast hours of the two-day break,the light going different as the dusk would takethe afternoon. The house goes quietin a different way—the subtle riotof the particular grey of the seventh evening,the couch, the

The Specific Sadness of Missing You There’s a specific kind of sad that’s different from grief —it’s not the heavy, permanent sadness,it’s the lighter, sharper one that comes and goes:missing someone who’s coming back.You’re in it and you know it’s temporaryand knowing it’s temporary doesn’t help that much —you still feel the specific absence of

The Small Window of the Good It’s brief—the window opens for a few minutesat a time, the grey shifts and within it’ssomething close to actual: the unrehearsedokay, the lift of the grey—not reversedbut paused. I catch it like a shift in weather,I adjust to the good before it comes togetherinto the closing, I live inside

The Social Life I Didn’t Expect to Have At thirty-eight I had run the numbers on my social situation,And arrived at a fairly settled and reduced estimation,A handful of good people in a comfortable rotation,And a largely predictable and satisfactory station. Then I said yes to something I would normally have passed,A dinner with an

The Skin SuitI wake up every morning and I put the person on,the one who knows the handshake and the tie and the salonof workplace interactions, and the person fits me well,he smiles at all the right times and he has the laugh to sell.But underneath the person is the thing that does the wearing,the

The Slow Burn The slow burn don’t announce itself with flashIt don’t blow up in a sudden show of ashIt settles in and takes up all the roomIt fills the chest, it fills the afternoonThe slow burn of a wanting that’s been heldToo long in one container to be quelled The slow burn, the slow

The Silver NarcissusThe flashbulbs are biting like insects in the heat of the floorI’m adjusting the collar and checking the latch on the doorI’ve spent three hours with a razor and a chemical gelConstructing a mask that the camera can’t even tell I look at the glass and I see a god made of plastic