For my trouble, I was kicked out of the Republic

with the other liars. I was too powerful; I intimidated Plato.

In Indiana, I walked for forty days—I stayed polite, I dirged

with appropriate pomp. On the highway, I couldn’t get warm.

I burned sage & gave beautiful breakup speeches

to people who had broken up with me first. Yes, I was wounded.

I found I had strung my life between two bad men.

Helpfully, a billboard on I-65 read HELL IS REAL.

Carly Simon was like Yeah, he probably thinks these poems are about him.

There was a fear that I would tell the story in a way that might

unnecessarily tell someone about himself.

No one ever promised or implied that love would be

reciprocated: let’s make that clear. I signed a contract

agreeing that I would not hold anyone accountable

for stealing my youth, for sending me into early cronehood.

Signature family recipes were to be withheld in talks.

Meanwhile, I turned 30. I sent a text that said

Please stop colonizing all of our mutual friends with your dick.

Cattle bones lined the trail of the dead. For five years I was fevered.

I couldn’t explain how I had layered the wood on the fire.

ELEGY WITH SYMPATHY

For the bulldozed house. For the ripped-out yard. For the mourning doves that won’t come back to the swamp, not this time. For the trees planted in the yard when the children are born, for how tall they grow—the trees—even after you’ve died so young. Can any loved field be a churchyard is the start of a letter I’m writing. Postmark no date. I can’t bring myself to open the mail. It’s hard for us to understand God’s plan is the message, but I learned early that the flood was a sentence. An earned blight. There isn’t going to be a eulogy for this. No hymn songs. No innocent dirt. For all the changeling girls who couldn’t pull the splinters out, whose wings did not form. Is it a system—if the water wants to drown us—is it? If I say it’s the water’s fault? Behind me in the dirt there are only wet prints leading back to your grave. I don’t want to take back all my trying. In the beginning there was a word for this. I carry it now like a bit in my mouth.

AUBADE WITH ATTENTION TO PATHOS

I.

Wine-drunk, ham-faced on the duvet. Cue feelings talk.

Should I have been more detached? Should I not have draped myself

on the heat vent wearing only my socks—like so?

Because he addressed me always by both names. Cooked for me when I wouldn’t eat.

Making Thanksgiving food for himself in October. Patron saint of the head start.

With his dog who spoke English, possibly other languages.