I wake from a sex dream that falls
on the opposite side of the fence, out
of reach. Ovaries aching and fired,
my body hot, sharp. Needing. My body
giving edicts for a time passing
monthly, unheeded. Standing would
break dawn, like the first morning--
as if ballads could be called down like that.
The short long short of them.
I live close to the water. Can see it’s blinking,
blank face if I stand tall enough. It’s easy
to go to it, to quit myself of longing.
Instead I burrow in my stickiness, knowing I’d
ALL AROUND THE MULBERRY BUSH
An ape sees my shape, chase chase chase!
A penny for a spool of thread, a penny for a
Soon, I am
shape shifting, barely
there, as light as
changing the subject.
The monkey chased the shape.
Limbs askew--mix it up and make it nice.
Close the curtain and make it night.
Come on, now, can’t you play nice?
Chase the shape, it twas all just fun!
Button your shape, feel nothing
from the shape down, and that’s the way
the money goes--
WELCOME TO ONTARIO
It didn’t mean fuck-all, fretting over free coffee on a flight, leaving Ontario on the day her wife left her. She was reasonably expecting to die. Science specifically says ruptures like that kill. I had a friend—not this one—read to me about Sharon Tate, while driving the 17 from Santa Cruz to Capitola to buy saltwater taffy. She was stabbed ‘sixteen times, five of which were fatal,’ as if we care about fact.
I didn’t mean to fuck her wife, but I’m glad to have gotten that cliché over early. I’m only 30. I’m sitting in the middle row between two men who are careful with each other’s space, but not with mine. How terrible. Sharon Tate will always be met with dread, a stomach-drop. My friend, whose wife I fucked, will always be a woman whose friend fucked her wife. How is it we are embarrassed, when left? Through the sliver between shoulder and sun, I can see only blue. I know I’ve been seated here as punishment, drank moldy coffee to remind my body what filth feels like, because it is difficult to remember when your hands are full of someone.
Have you ever been to Ontario? It’s not a place many go casually. It is penned in with heat and the close knowledge of other, better cities. It doesn’t matter if I am talking about Canada or California. It doesn’t matter that I feel like a condiment on this plane, that an article once told me that coffeepots on planes never get washed. That I will always be accused of killing a thing already beached and rotting, if Ontario had a waterfront. The leaving and entering are rarely important, except in love.