I Am Trying to Forget His Chest but the Faucet Keeps Shining in the Sun Like Hair



His face is a question

I keep trying to answer


as I watch an insect

crawl across the desert


of porcelain called

the bathtub and think


how I haven’t looked

at the moon in weeks.


I admire how the air

manages to hold itself


upright without complaint

while I look right through it,


use it to stay alive. And O,

all these strange mens’


bodies—I cannot even

call them meat anymore.


I am the meat, the mass

of flesh shaped for sitting.


After weeks of writing

about my unavailable


father, my unavailable

mother, the unavailable


men who twisted from

my sheets like water


from a hand-wrung towel,

I sink under the wet earth


of his texts and remember

the weight of his hand 


on my thigh as we talked

of the apocalypse


and our helplessness

to stop it. Each thought


keeps spelling THE END

though the door


opens and the window

opens and the tireless


blue of the sky is a hinge.