you put your hand around       my arm

and the fingers met. When I left I ate

those frosted doughnuts

in the

thin plastic       sleeves and    cheap    meat swelled

fat as a tick.

Hunger a metaphor

for hunger.    And when I met       the       husband I

was

back to       nothing. Now I eat       like

my neighbors.

Look at this       suburb.       Big salads and

fresh    fish. I       don’t gain. I don’t       lose.

I keep the wine       down.

These little       black       dresses.

High heels.       Hair

sliced       to the chin and dyed       light.

But you’d know me.

My hand still          trembles       on the pen.

I still open my

eyes       when I come.

ECHO

ECHO

I’ll never get used to

seeing

house after house after house

the lawns

like dark jewels in the evening

between them. The way trees

stand shy so far apart

and the sky

halved of its stars—

Where are our stars? Our evenings? Our trees?

Good ghosts

tucked inside their mirrors,

haunting as quietly as they can.

IN MY DREAM YOU CALLED ME ON A PHONE MADE OF LEAVES AND I ANSWERED

IN MY DREAM
YOU CALLED ME ON A PHONE
MADE OF LEAVES
AND I ANSWERED

Hello?

It’s me

Oh, you—

Who else?

No, no one.

Who else

You know I don’t like the phone.

Who else

I meant to write

Who

I’m getting married

(wind)

I’m sorry

Who

I’m sorry I didn’t call

Who

You don’t know him

(wind)

You’d like him actually

(wind)

Are you still there

Mm

Are you mad

I’m thinking

Thinking what

Can’t describe

Don’t be jealous

Not, not

It’s in May

(wind)

The wedding I mean

Do you love him

I don’t know

You don’t

Don’t ask me

(leaves)

I’ve been sick

Shh

And so busy

Shh

And you didn’t come

Not, not

We’ll have pear trees

(wind)

In the spring

You don’t

And music

Don’t

Why didn’t you

(leaves)

Just once

(leaves)

In the spring

NUDE

NUDE

I kept making them, long after, you in between pages of

birds, of ferns, of bees; thick-thighed, adrift, the ink pressed

hard into the page, as if to pin you down: the way you sat on

the step, knees wide, cupping your chin as you listened; you

making tea at my stove; you sprawled before the fire, on a

blanket, facing the flames. I draw your back; it’s what I can

stand to see. I buy men for class, to sit or stand or squat,

dicks dangling like wet socks on a clothesline, copied into

a dozen notebooks for me to nod at, yes and yes and yes, is

that how you see him? Is the light right? Where is his weight

on the page? When I draw a woman she looks tired, even if

she is twenty. There’s no one to correct me, to say Just draw