And People I knew were in the Hall

And People I knew were in the Hall

You and I were

bathing in a white

tub with green claws holding

it up. Your pants

were still on

because you’re a little self

conscious about showing

your legs to me.

I was naked,

and we were watching a movie

on the TV across from our tub.

Kissing your jawbone,

“My mom will be mad

if she walks in on us.”

You smiled with the smile

you use in devilish pleasure

rather than out of joy.

I focused on tiny, dark hairs

above your lips, and you told me,

“We’re fine.”

I got out and started

dressing.

Water sloshed from the basin

and you were out.

“Oh, hey,

I’m gonna take off.”

I became a cape

around your neck.

“You can’t leave me

now.”

And you were already

in the doorway when you said,

“But I like England;

it smells like Spain.”

Night Melting

Night Melting

Remembering real life

exists coincides with feeling

the lemony soreness

of my shoulders. Realizing

I never opened a door—one

with little turquoise

gems and gold paint

incorporated lavishly into the framework—

that led me to a stair-filled

world of demons, is exactly

the same as finding

a miniscule mound of gunk

piled in the corner of my eyes. I’m always

trading love-filled ship rides

for bright lights and bad breath.

Something Much Needed

I dreamt about my grand—

father last night.

He trembled oddly

as he hugged me. I thought

perhaps it was because

of his age, but

he seemed no older

than I ever knew him.

He was still sturdy,

round and wearing

suspenders.

I’d call him Grandpa

Malcolm if I had another

who shared his title;

just like I had a Grandma

Marie and

Grandma June.

But there was never a reason

to do the same for him.

And when he died

I stopped talking

about him altogether.

Not that I spoke

of him much in his

life.

But I’m certain

there’s something bringing

him back. Because I

never knew him, never

received his sagely

advice, I must have

called for his hug

in some way.

I've Never Heard a Heart as Strange as Yours

I’ve Never Heard a Heart as Strange as Yours

In truth, those are little red

marks of love.

Or passion. Maybe just

lust. All those tingly bits

of abstraction. Stars in the sky,

right? Rose petals

and all that. . .

But it looks like my neck

was mauled by

wolves with a vendetta

and yellow teeth.

I’m certain God

has cursed us. I think

He does it in His

free time. Bored,

so why not curse

those dear children?

He’s given you a milk jug heart

that emptied out long ago

and keeps pumping

with the violence of

the hungry wolves

living in my fingertips.

I’m not sure

what He’s done to me

but it has something

to do with everything underneath.

The houses and cold nights

bubbling inside my skin

and the pancake of colors

behind my eyes. The ones

I see overlapping whatever

might be in front of me.