Appeal or What I wish I said when you told me it was “because of my outfit” and Each year my tits get a little lower

Appeal or What I wish I said when you told me it was “because of my outfit”

Like simple moths

            i have no taste

                        for anything 

                                    but shelter—

 Your poems

            they bore me your songs

                        they eat me 

                                    alive—

When i learned from you 

            what a woman is a series 

                        of revolving doors 

                                    a circuitous

Entry point i made

            a list of all the films

                        i’ve watched that made me

                                    Weep—

Our conflict: 

            your dry eyes,

                        the options for me:

                                    my nothing 

Or my something 

            which could kill—

                        & if you need an image, watch the leaves 

                                    as they revise themselves 

So gorgeously & ask them 

            if they do it 

                        for attention— & while I walk

                                    that long long distance

Of your mind imagine 

            a man leaning out his truck Spitting

                        in the spot 

                                    where I refuse him—

Watch him remind me what No looks like

            all pressed into concrete 

                        like that—

                                    & for God’s sake LOOK

For the moonlight exhaust the women 

            rowing quickly thru the Blue—

                        travel with them those twenty long paces

                                    toward home—

Breathe, again, enough to carry 

            the self back 

                        thru a threshold,

                                    thru familiar light,

Reminded now

            of this film this body

                        how far 

                                    it is 

From over—

            and, at once,

                        how close,

                                    darling,

How close 

            it is 

                        to being 

                                    finished.


Each year my tits get a little lower 

if the acorn were a person 

i would’ve just witnessed

vehicular manslaughter

& it would have been 

my fault 

a text from yankee candle

Big sale

my cold pinned limbs 

among clots of magma

leaves they look so much

like perfect little lungs

pulled out of a deer 

in biology class thinking always

of science all those simple 

solutions how much better

this air would be if they didn’t build

fucking Cracker Barrels or the corresponding 

billboards & now the men r painting 

the windows of an old house in Wilkinsburg

yellow like the custard depicted in the Good 

Housekeeping cookbook i found on the curb

a few weeks ago & carried it home imagining

a dinner party a phat jiggling dessert with perfectly

suspended fruit & a conversation that looks right 

past me but I am so so glamorous I laugh anyway as I pour 

pour pour each seamlessly emulsified drink

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