Sunday, December 3

a trade of pacific magnitude (three)

I. In an Airplane Chair

soon, girl, soon
you'll be gone:

When death arrives
in my mailbox

When death arrives
on my doorstep
and i let it into my bed

When chocolate death
places a hairline crack along my eggshell
& I gasp

and you fly across the atlantic
turbulently into your airplane pillow
"I told you so,
I told you so"

II. In a parking Lot

carefully i place my mouth
into the passenger seat of your car.

now, you are blue and grey-
(a memory of garish torquoise.)
this i have loved.
i make a promise to drink from you
but i leave you in your box.

snow snags in the orange hello lights.
i cut up my dress, but i am still twirling.
teary-eyed, wandering the rows, half unbelieving,
but it's saturday

III. At a Table

Life, all tied up in your hair.
Maybe it's in your hands.

Gently, I glued the world together with a paintbrush.
Now she sits on Jordan's desk,
she says she'll use the bowl for candy.

You tell me we're going to take pictures.
I say, "There's so much earth left--"

I want to call you but I'm worried we'd have nothing to talk about.

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