The Birdbath
Inanimate objects know history. They have
been lifted, rearranged, made to hold other
inanimate objects. The book I was reading
when the phone rang sits dog-eared on the
red cushion of a white wicker chair in our
backyard. I have fallen asleep in that chair
on warm summer nights while you sat quiet
beside me, writing poetry.
Someone's brakes failed, left you inanimate.
My purpose is to identify, but I hear myself
lying. I tell them it's not you. I tell them you
could never keep your hands this still. They
wait for me to change my mind. You always
laughed at how impossible it was for me to
admit being wrong. I admit being wrong.
My skin is the hard cover of an unread book,
and my legs won't bend. So many of your poems
were about me; how I gave you reason to breathe.
I never once wrote of you, never once mentioned
what I always feared losing. You were my only
superstition. The birdbath holds the unquenchable
thirst of one hundred sparrows. Inanimate objects
know history. I cannot move.
Holding To Air
You are like the word absent - not in the sense
of being gone, but the way one can tell something
is missing. The bees in my blood work honeycomb
bones, hoard a sweetness gone untasted. The night
you touched me with jaded hands, I locked myself
in the bathroom and cried. You are filled with sand,
and no longer fit inside me. I am kept at a distance
created by desert eyes. The first word I ever spoke
was no, and it became my mantra. Yes has always
tried to kill me. I would rather lean into the blade
than fall away in pieces. How is it you never once
heard me scream? I leave you the image of bones
and honey, and a blue bowl filled with dead bees.
You Can Leave Your Shoes On
She called you today, referred to me as
your sister. I went along because family
is important, and I'm against incest. We
both have the same passion for shoes.
I loved you before her call, but that was
when I used to leave my shoes all over
the damned house. Sometimes, I had to
climb under our bed for a matching pair.
People should take control of their shoes.
Feet really do need protection. I used to
prefer being barefoot, but that was before
I started stepping in your shit.
My shoes are lined in neat rows, ready to
carry me past your latest excuse. Size six,
three inch heels for the sure and easy sway
of fuck-you hips that love an exit.