Chosen

we expect this tap on the shoulder to come every other day or so, sometimes every other week, or month -- alienation-hide-and-seek, voices calling from around corners, behind trees -- i should be over this by now, but i feel a tickle, a sneeze coming on, giving me away -- we expect this, a punch in the arm, a smile and wave, sometimes often, sometimes not often enough -- they say we can't live in isolation, we need community, we need the warmth of another's breast -- we need to feel safe behind mother's skirt or under the covers, as if monsters are allergic to polyester blends -- we expect this, to be loved, to be valued, to be carefully plucked from a solitary tree, polished on a shirtfront, and enjoyed -- we expect this because we want to be seen and heard, even in pause, in shadow -- hide-then-seek -- found

Coming Home

I'm often asked, "When are you
coming home?" But the person
posing the question does not
understand the meaning of the
word. Home, not the place with
the high ceilings and red carpet--
Home is the place where decades
of shoebox coffins protect former
pets. Home is the place with holes
in drywall, a bathroom sink without
plumbing. Home is a fragment, broken
off in the membrane of my childhood,
the disembodied spirit of a house
without a typical context. I open a
wound and call it home, so the
question coming from her lips,
his lips, stings the sore. "When
are you coming home?" As if home is
still a destination. As if it exists
in time without dust, still protecting
the people with cotton lives and
judgment. At least home isn't
abandoned, except by me.

Untitled

A child asks if the
sky is able to be
touched, tickled,
pinched. The teacher
shrugs and sighs
something cynical.
A child asks his
mother later if
it's true that
the sky feels
nothing, is indifferent.
The mother, running
her tongue across
her teeth, clicks
an answer: a question--
If the sky feels nothing,
then why does it blush?

Foreign Policy

I offered an olive branch.
You offer a grenade.
What am I supposed to do exce--!

. . ....

Charades

This is the
scene of the crime,
a murder happening
in slow motion.
You break the bread,
but you forget to pass it.
An unsent memo
is obviously missed.
I'm supposed to read
invisible ink, invisible
because the pen never
reaches the page--
the side effect
of slow motion.

Please translate
your actions for me.
The words don't match
the body language.
A shrug with a yes.
An eye-roll with a thank-you.
This is the scene
of the crime, a murder
happening in slow motion.
I want to tell you
but you don't want to listen--
Caution tape, a fence.

I have to say
that I miss you. Your
voice crackles on the
phone. I can't see your
expression to judge the
temperature, this game
of charades. Am I close?
On the nose? You break the
bread, but you forget to
pass it. I'm left watching
the spider fall slowly
down the wall, the bungee
cord too weak to offer security--
a murder happening
in slow motion.