Estrangements

 

In the evening, a funeral. A bowl

of fake lashes. A plate full of fish

bones & leftover spinach. The moon

 

in ruins through the window. Bodies

splayed in wild grasses: a snake,

a spider, a Saw Palm—its loneliness, tied

 

to the short life of the sun. I look for

someone living in me, but my name

estranges me from the hibiscus,

 

centipedes, streets that measure themselves

by people they’re named for. I asked the gods

for a long life, my first child

 

in my hands, but I haven’t heard back

& however kind, the night

still blackens everything it touches.

 

In my mouth: millions of names

for bodies I’ll mourn before I leave

here. But my child doesn’t know

 

that way a name can estrange us

from the world. The cockroach, upended

in the garage, a cockroach. Still.

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Pretenses (marriage: year 20)

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Confession: if I close my eyes,

I can pretend my open mouth

 

wants to be left empty, the afternoon

sun slitted through cracks

 

in the blinds. I can pretend

I want to give you up, your name

 

sharpened against my teeth. This mouth,

the last peony in a summer

 

field. What do we have? I have never asked

to love someone else. I took

 

what you gave me & made myself

into a storm drain, silenced by afternoon

 

sun slitted through cracks

in the skies. Confession: I sometimes want

 

to fight. I want to know I’m not

the wind you shut out completely, forced

 

to leave & return on someone else’s

calendar. I want to feel less

 

numb—the sun touching my skin,

briefly, if only to leave a mark.