Poetry

That was last year / You said, crumpling the paper into shapes

My affair here is with / a machine.

she knows herself, the patterned ladder, / knows the circumvention of the mind

That January day I stood / as if iced in

I’m stuck on my body, / how we’ve communicated in betrayal.

not a hair more // Than any person should need another person

Weightless you fly now, / gravity doesn’t grapple with you

You call me to wash your hair, cup bubbles / like Mary Poppins singing to her birds

One asks, // Are you going out tonight? / How my heart would sink.

silence // is a foreign visitor who, it seems, / has come to stay

The color of cotton candy, the airy batting of childhood. Pale, new, and fleeting.