10

This piece is playing with what German word order looks like in English. 

Although he sometimes an asshole be can, 

Sometimes thinks he of me or you

And we feel ourselves lucky and hurt

Yet nothing can worse be, than understanding 

The rays of the sun and how they into

The deep pores of our skin burn. 

Because he us knows and whatever

In the morning slowly in front of the rooster

Passes. You smoke. When smoke I, feel I 

Myself not pride but a so deep ache, coursing

Though my blood and my marrow. The valley 

Calls to me. It screams sweet nothings

And waves me in pity over. 

9

Someone told me of Icarus,
Flying with wings of wax
And feathers, curious.

Did you burn yours
With cigarettes or bridges?

Icarus landed in an ocean,
Lapped up by women, sold
To the sex trade, probably.

Now, he goes by Jerome,
Sits on a park bench playing
Chess with himself.

If no one sees you fall,
Where do you land?

8

You tell me with your hands,

And I agree for a moment, 

That slow is smooth, but nothing

Satisfies like an entire chicken

Or cooking the rooster outside

The door. You know, the alarm

Every morning. 

That plucky thing talks a lot,

Proving that he's worth something

Somewhere, proving that behind 

The feathers, we're the same--

Aching for someone to know 

We're awake and tossing around.

But does anyone care, really?

One day, we'll find the feathers,

The remnants of a reality that flew 

Past the branches like a bike

In the rain and understand, for 

A moment, what he called out 

Each morning--what it means

To really smell the sun up close. 

7

To the woman lying on her back, right hand turning purple

When you turn to smile for a minute
at your husband, who's just barely
made it back for the tinfoil blanket
to wrap around your body and tucked
his bike, and yours, around the corner
of the park, I ache to jump the curb,
to grab your twisted fingers and drive off.

It's not my fault, really, not wanting
to be here. I wasn't there when my mom
slid off her sled the wrong way, bashed
her kidney into a rock, peed blood
for five days. Nor was I there
when my grandmother slashed her calf
open while fishing knee deep in
a Montana river. But when I stand there,
listening to the story, I understand fluidity.

I choose language over relation, finding
the jumping tongue sharper than the snap
of my mother's fingers after I gaze sideways
for a half second too long. Sometimes,
I want to strangle Babel. To wrap my jacket,
like the tinfoil around you, and unleash
a flurry of Pitbulls and spit, listening
for a scream. But what would that sound like?