by wind, until they blur like a sandstorm—

he hears it all. Deafening like footfalls

against the icy driveway, resonant

like your mother’s voice, calling

the wrong name—your name—again.

The Boy Who Bathes the Dead

The Boy Who Bathes the Dead

The boy decides soldiers can no longer be dead,

so he begins to dig.

Graves are shallow enough that, using only his hands,

he quickly finds a limb,

buried without a corpse. He brushes dirt away,

slides the arm into the pocket of overalls.

Until all soldiers are found and placed

in separate ziplock bags,

his fingers rake soil,

churn the dark earth. His brother

finds him afterwards filling a sink to rinse

the crevices and metal joints, worried

he bathes the plastic infantry too carefully.

As if they had families. As if they were men.

Thalassophobia: Fear of the Sea

Thalassophobia

Fear of the Sea

for David Blair

Tonight, you are sweat-itchy and drunk.

Your guitar sleeps under black felt

in a case under Cinco de Mayo’s black sky.

Your laugh pours like thick honey. Your arms

open, the gap between your teeth opens

and I am uncomfortable as only you

can make me. You stubbled kiss.

You friction against cheek. You taught me

how to kiss my father and I am less forgetful

as you made me, though forgetful enough

not to exhale when sleep wraps

coral around my throat until my lover

wakes me, choked with nothing

and I tell her I am drowning.

I fill toilets and sinks and rugs

with bottles of whiskey I can’t quite hold

in the empty thing that is my belly. I pour

and swallow and pour and swallow

and pour it all back into my cupped hands.

Tomorrow, I will still be reckless

just like you taught me, and though I still itch

at the thought of wet clothes clinging to skin,

I long to hug you after a performance

before the night air evaporates the proof

of that work from your back. I want to believe

water is just water—what you said that day

the sky turned dark-aluminum above us. You said it

as though nothing had ever been warped by rain.

In this last dream, there is no rigging

to get tangled in, no water to rush

down our throats. My hand

is uneasy on your leg, my head against

your shoulder. You don’t find it heavy

at all. You’re singing.

Everyday the shells you left behind remain

clean, though no one is left to rinse

the sediment away. Who should have such a job?

Somewhere between your wake and a new town

I can’t call home, I slept in a bathtub

with the clock radio cranked loud enough to be heard

over the thundershower because I couldn’t sleep

in my car for another night, and the bed

in that motel room was lumpy and dream-soaked,

and you know how I am: Blair,