Transparency

The beetles we find near our dishes were run out of town.
They had no names. They only made red ink when crushed.
That was their signature. Whole beetle families gathered
around drains, either praying or clicking. They had no names.

Glass, sprinkled on asphalt: that is the night.
Where rabbits sneak gracefully under fences: that is this town.
Cockroaches are not welcome. The hum of electricity, wire
replacing branches: we are either praying or clicking
through force fields. We are not used to names, only slurs
whispered, the occasional bottle cap pressed into wet cement.

Division Street

I'd like to call it a dance record,
drowning you out, applied in layers,
different colors, textured fabrics.
Folding sheets, stretched between arguments.
This is our routine, the same one we've performed
for generations. I heat dinner unevenly,
wait for you to come home, romanticize, drown you out.
I pretend the warm laundry is you. The music of chores,
surprised at how common it feels. Your favorite
sweater is black with red stripes, and I pretend
it doesn't smell like you, drown you out.
I'd like to call it big band, hailing magic, chaotic,
but the only charge I feel comes from dryer sheets, static.
I am static.

Periphery

We are guiltiest of idolatry,
lining our thoughts
with the currency of shortcuts.

Collapsed on the bed is the lover we worship,
the system we're used to. We are the deadbeats,
feet propped, happy with our long day's work.

"We do what we can for our families,"
is our patent-pending excuse, cupboards stocked,
Honduras and China on our legs and backs, our feet and faces.

We are the guiltiest of laziness,
ignoring the periphery when an arm strikes the windshield.

We are guiltiest of idolatry,
lining our thoughts with the currency of shortcuts.
We are guiltiest of the American Dream.