Sunset, 
my apologies, 
but I cannot be bothered to visit tonight
as I am busy vomiting
up last night’s macabre radiance
into the toilet—
a sunset reflection in its own 
right.

I saw a snap of you in between hurls 
that made me stop for a minute
to consider alternate itineraries—
a parent shown a video
of their child’s missed recital.

Sunset, 
if I had a trombone for every
time this has happened, 
I’d be a Craigslist hero—

if I had a Bible for every
sundry Sunday eve, I’d 
fill every Hilton’s drawers
for free.

Love, 
I promise that next time—
and there will be a next time—
I will take my sorry guts into
the yard, stare up into your knowing
glow, throw up everything that’s 
ever made me miss brilliance
and see my reddened eyes in you.

You are not how I want to die, 
but live, blossoming 
indecent pink onto
every lawn in shameful view 
of neighbor’s children, 
always.

You never die, 
but live, and at this point
I don’t know how you 
afford it.

I’m just trying
to keep
up.

part I: day one and confession

sun and
wine stained seats
and your undivided
your wholly-divided
your holy, divided attention

and warmth
and grass
and your warmth
and my embarrassing desires
shameful in light of your apathy.
you can care less than me

you say something mean
I can’t help but laugh
because you are a child or you are crazy
because I don’t believe you

sort of like how I cringe when people say “objectively”
because what the fuck is that about?
and have you ever believed anyone after they said that?

I’ve found my self face down in the dirt
resigned to this place which
is all my own
I’ll wait for you here

———

part II: exacting revenge exactly right

You’ve spent the last 7 weeks trying to clear your conscience of the mean thing that you did
I’ve spent the last 8 hours thinking up a way to hurt you really bad

what I’ve come up with: 
-telling you I hate your haircut 
-and your hair color 
-and the general thickness of your hair
-and how the general thickness prohibits any true swaying hair motions 
-telling you I’m in love with your girlfriend 
-and that she’s way better than you 
-kissing your girlfriend 
-and then telling you 
or 
-and then not telling you but both me and your girlfriend know 
-and then empathizing with her about how you’re a bad kisser 
-and then it turns out we’re both better kissers than you 
-finding a way to get you fired so that everyone thinks you’re a total bum 
-finding a way to make sure you stay at this job forever 
-because I know you hate it 
-because then I could just let our boss be mean to you and I wouldn’t have to come up 
with anything else 
-because nothing hurts worse than alienated labor 
-not texting you back when you text me 
-telling all your friends what you said to me 
-and embellishing slightly so that they think it was really, really mean 
-breaking in to your apartment and staining all your clothing with my menstrual blood 
-and then holding you captive for 2 days so when I let you go: 
-you try to wash it and it won’t come out all the way 
or 
-you beg me to keep you as my captive forever 
-finding someone else to love so you would think I was totally over you 
-and I absolutely would be totally over you 
-telling you I forgive you even though you never really apologized 
-making your misbehavior known publicly by: 
-going to the press with it by: 
-writing a letter to the editor in which I mention your misbehavior 
or 
-writing a letter to an advice columnist seeking advice on your misbehavior 
or 
-standing on a street corner telling passersby stories about your misbehavior 
-and how you still hug me always 
-totally forgetting all about you

———

part III: therefore:

all the apologies I never asked for
the ones I did that I never received
and all the ways in which my resentment builds
I am sour milk
spoiled by time and exposure

you text me:
“all good don’t worry”
you text me:
“yr the best”
you text me:
“I’m coming over”

I thought about asking you what I mean to you
but the things you say mean so little

I waste my time:
one day I will finish everything I ever started

(you included?)

———

part IV: coda

and so I loved you—

but

I hate remembering all the people that I’ve loved
and regretting it
because
what else is there to do with love you no longer have?

and maybe we’re just
spending too much time together

love,

The child, up all night, 
won’t take my breast.

Hours crawl blankly, 
or kaleidoscope and blur.

The world we share is 
patient, leans into softened 
wool we stretch 
long to dry.

I pick from a basket 
of tangerine moons, soak the peels in tea,
rub the warm sweetness along his spine,

pile little graves of coffee grounds 
for the day-garden,

and pinch grains of sugar 
between lips 
to starve off sleep.

His cry nips the insides of 
my cheeks,

makes the continuous static
wince,

and I think he aches for the 
close-tapestry of the old world.

I call my own mom, ask
how can I make him whole?

The first born is a gift, 
she says, to pay you back

for the ways you’ve ruined 
all the things you’ve loved.

The second is there to salvage what’s left.

The barn owl communicates with mates and offspring using a complex system of hissing, 
screeching, squawking, and facial muscle manipulation 
Survival is dependent on creating a voice so unique it can be recognized by loved ones in an instant

I argue the cause of my stutter is not neurologic
It’s got to be something deeper
Something desperate to be remembered

This is not a speech impediment 
My voice is an instrument, my stutter its greatest symphony 
My speech, composed by god 
I buy three grapefruit and I stutter
I study sociology and I stutter
I like tzatziki and I stutter 
The staccato of repetition is an unpredictable percussion
The struggle for every syllable a reminder I have not always had this voice
This stage, a gift of spotlights

It seems there is a new kind of privilege here 
In being understood the first time
In breath, calm and measured, stripping speech of nuance 
In passing as fluent to spare someone else embarrassment

For too long I have been afraid of my own name 
I have let it sit heavy in my throat 
A tool of betrayal 
I introduce myself and I stutter
I am a poet and I stutter
I call my parents and I stutter
I love you and I stutter
I love myself and I stutter

The stutter is the most honest part of me 
It is the only thing that never lies 
It is how I know I still have a voice
I am still being heard 
I am still here 
When I stutter I am speaking my own language fluently 
When I sound like this I know my loved ones can find me 
This is what I sound like when I speak for myself 
This is what I sound like 
This is what I sound like

I followed a man home last night. I wasn’t secretive about it or anything. I didn’t crouch around corners, or hide in bushes when he looked over his shoulder. I couldn’t. I was wearing a six-foot tall bootleg Big Bird costume. The sunshine yellow of the feathers had faded, and I now looked like a hazy memory of PBS mornings. I was supposed to be handing out flyers for the pizzeria where I worked. But I couldn’t stop following this man, wondering what he did in his home, if he was happy, or sad, having dinner with his wife, or eating alone. I stood at his window watching him watching me. Before he went to bed he zipped himself into a matching bird costume and I walked the fourty one blocks back to the pizzeria where I shoved the rest of my flyers through the mail slot.

Chicago is weird
outside the library
a man offers me 
coffee nuts
I am polite 
so I say no

tonight
went on a date
with a guy who
looks like James Franco
we bring up the B word
binge
let’s go

a different
date tells me
he found the 
slasher films 
I was in in college 
I panic 
he smiles

here, a story:
a little girl’s arm 
bruised fingerprints 
from the principal 
in a closet
I am alone
it is cold

it is cold 
in Chicago
but Boston has more
snow
my older sister sends me 
pictures of our home 
she says it is an 
igloo
I want to be in an igloo 
for my future honeymoon

this summer I want to kayak
grew up with a canoe 
in my backyard
only ever canoed New Hampshire
when visiting 
Uncle Eddie
who wasn’t an uncle
just
my dad’s friend

snow turns me into a child
on Michigan Avenue I am
crying

I am so happy
you are having
a good week 
now tell me what you ate
list it so I know

I’ve slept on this futon enough
times to know
you prefer to put it in rooms with high ceilings and big windows, though
you have not always been able to. I saw

this futon making eyeballs at your ex-girlfriend’s apartment though
it never did move in.

I lived on this futon for a summer while you
worked, doing research abroad and I
couldn’t sleep in the bed I’d sublet from you 
because you had no air conditioning and the room
with the high ceilings was cooler and I
was too drunk to find the bed anyway 
and it was the hottest summer on record.

I saw it in the first place you lived with your fiance. Where she had brought 
the good furniture, the futon
resigned to a guest room compact.

Today I drove in and you were living somewhere
new and I saw this futon commanding
a tall white room

almost alone here

as I lay, the streetlights coming in through
the big windows
broke my thoughts open.

You, my friend, have seen my alley-dwelling hours.
I have never seen you in pain.
You have never slept on my couch,

we will never say goodbyes, but one day
you will be gone and I won’t understand.

girl is the mouth on my neck kissing / down my collarbone / girl is the forest of my heart wailing / like a metronome / like a bomb / like bad timing / girl is the mountain i am climbing / girl is when i say i have already crossed it / girl is the stream in my back yard in the frosted / winter / where i wrote poems / on paper boats / girl is me eating breakfast and crying / girl is me saying no and him saying yes / girl is me saying no and her saying okay / girl is the crucifix / on my bending back / my questioning spine / my rolling hips / girl is the spit on my hands / girl is the things in my heart i am trying to fight free from / girl says come home / i say no / girl says go to sleep / i say stay awake / girl says bleed for it / i say heal from it / girl coughs me up from her throat / from her chest / from my home in her stomach / and says / what’s wrong / i say / i am leaving this body / right now / girl is the stains on my table where i spilled coffee / girl is her hands in a cradle around me / where i can’t fight / where i can’t run / girl is the fingers / the loaded gun / the way my ribs hurt / girl is the saliva of a long day / licking its lips / girl is left and right and forward when i run / girl is behind when i turn / girl is the clouds of a clear day / girl is obscure and obscuring / girl is abjured and abjuring / girl is the season turning / and i am the next / the new / the old / i am the rush and the wind and the fold / of creased fabric / girl is someone else’s old habit / i am trying to break / girl held me / and i said / let go

Dear Empathetic Male Poet,

Thank you for taking the time to share my story!
I have been searching forever for a way to tell people what happened to me
and have them fucking listen,
so imagine my gratefulness to find you,
voice like the air raid preceding my attack,
sound that people just cannot seem to ignore.
You see, when I talk about rape, somehow, 
I am the din of a shattered white abyss,
mosquito buzzing too close to your ear,
something you patiently ignore until it is in an easier place
to smack away,
somewhere you can then point and laugh at the blood smear,
but through the megaphone of your voicebox,
I can talk through you!
and your dulcet tones soothe people 
into swallowing the sharp rocks
I have always called a daily meal.

It’s like the world just can’t stand to see 
pain without hope,
they want every story like a fucking fairy tale,
and with you, they get the tragedy of my pain
wrapped into a gentler, more aware kind of man,
the hope that I will not forever be cast as an object
only conquerable by your powerful, cruel-hearted penis;
no, now, I can be conquered by your magic healing penis!
Don’t be surprised that my story now contains an addendum
in which your special wizard staff spurts out some spiritual superglue 
and just sorta sticks together all the pieces of me pushed apart by other penises. 
it’s like the signature on a free messaging app,
it seems to add itself to the end of whatever I say.
It’s like you don’t even know what you’re saying!
Just to check in,
do you know what you’re saying?
Have you stopped to take a second to hear your actual message, 
or do you love the sound of your own voice too much to get past it?
Because I have been listening to every word, 
the way you thoughtfully tell the rapt audience how you think I felt,
and I will always remember how easily you spoke for me,
took your payment in praise,
and left me totally fucking healed,
clearly,
by your fucking magic dick.

And at first I was mad,
listening to you
tell my story in a way I am not allowed to,
but then I realized,
I should be thanking you
for doing your part
for empathetic male poets and other victims of oppression everywhere!
I don’t even need to write poetry now!
Instead, I have all this time to show you what it’s like
to live a life that gives you these kinds of stories.
I offer you thanks in the form of fear.
Will I be around a corner waiting for you?
Will I threaten people you love like I do you?
Will anyone ever stop me, or will they think 
you are at worst a joke
and at best a cautionary tale,
a stunning three-minute display for someone else,
maybe someone who does the exact things that terrify you,
maybe someone you hate,
maybe me?

You deserve a skipping heart (and the subsequent imagined dismemberment) –
to feel your body a venus flytrap and your stomach a terrified fly trying to escape –
the only fitting gratefulness I can give you is your own personal hell to capitalize on!
And I wish you well learning to write
about that.

Question 1: What do you hear when the rain falls?

A.) A carton of milk spilling in the grocery store before you checkout.

B.) The sound nail biters make and imagine this is what a tree 
being chopped down feels like.

C.) I no longer remember the question because I am suddenly 
sad about chopping trees.

 
D.) The rain unzipping itself and how I wish I could make my 
unraveling so orchestra.

Question 2: When you feel sad, do you feel sad?

A.) I drank too much of you last night. Used my mouth to pry you open and sucked your juices dry till all rinds. All stem. And you somehow felt prettier to me then.

B.) Being whole is an illusion.

C.) What is sadness but a fog. We look to the sky and ask the 
clouds if we can touch her. She comes down to her earth 
and we ask her to leave.

 
D.) All of the above.

Question 3: Fill in the Blank:

Alone, I am _________, only when you are_______. Because I listen to _____ in the feet_____ of your belonging. I _____ _____ ______ one with the ______.