on the line

my life will be lived in a hot pan
sauteed over fire with shallots and lime
defined by flashing silver and late nights
crashing into cotton long after my love

floating on juniper-y liquors
and lavender, coriander brews
with a flick, twist of skinny wrists
until insomnia means nothing

and tomorrow comes









via (never pause)

clay villains

every night i slide into dreams.
they are bad dreams
vivid and dark villains pushed together,
hastily.
red and grey and brown clay
edges still crinkly
if they were rolled smooth,
orderly marbles
with clean whorls and intents,
i could place them

but no

they are people with-
three names,
two voices,
no faces.
people i know
or don’t

every morning i wake up unsettled
sweaty to my toes
trying to hold onto the villains
long enough to remember their faces
so if we meet again,
i can whisper, “you don’t scare me
anymore”

spoons

when i was a teenager i would
stay up inadvisably late every day of the week
stir together sugar and butter and cream cheese
or flour, oil, cocoa, sugar and milk
little bowls of brownie batter and frosting just for me
i broke my heart on bagels and chili with chips
alone in my room in the almost dark
my lamp had four bulbs but just one working
i lived with spoons for company in a nest of dirty laundry
until the drawer downstairs had no utensils
and it took me too long to dress in the morning

i’m on the cusp of growing up now
but when i spend nights in my childhood home
my shoe footed or sock footed or bare footed feet pad into the kitchen
to dip a series of spoons into hot fudge and peanut butter,
string endless episodes of anything until i can’t see,
curled up on couches under whatever is closest
i don’t sleep in my old bedroom anymore