face, his fist through the feathers like he meant it, all wrong,

and I reached for him, the both of us crying out, and that

was when he wept, my beautiful husband, How could you

make me? How could you? the pillow knocked away and him

touching my face, touching it all over, shoulders shaking. I

held him tight. How could you.

ACCOUNTING

ACCOUNTING

There were       some       things       I stole       from you I       confess it

now    that you are    gone now       that I am beyond the reach

of your long

eye shall I make       a list? Like       I did

when    I came back to the old       house       without you walking

the beaten

weeds

to the door when I    sat    on the cracked    step    dipping my finger

in spit

I heard Telemann       in my head       as I wrote    in the grit

on the porch plank

I heard you       tell me    how much your wife       loved you

as the mattress rolled

beneath       my cheek

I could count       all the times       with you       on a handful    of hands

and yet it

seems there are years    crunched up       somewhere    in the space

between

weeks

and they have       aged me they have    worn me    smooth

as lakestones

my knees so soft from kneeling    mouth    like moss

from sucking cunt

loosening

its little    beads       of blood

does it mean    something    your knuckles bridged

over my lips you were    tenderest    then    when we I was on    the

edge of

blacking

out.

About those things    I took:

I won’t name them       just now. Maybe       not          ever.

I’ll let you    test    your pockets       on your way    home    the little

doors

inside you.

I had all the keys. All except one.

CONSTELLATION

CONSTELLATION

I’m trying to get it as pure as I can.

Exact in every movement. This and this and this—

you put me in my place. Even beneath you

I was among the stars, platinum, plasma,

set among your hips, gemlike, polished.

You were there, beside, Vulpecula and his goose

staining the north sky.

This is what I have to know now:

where to stow the crown. How to put by the sword.

How to staunch the flood that flows toward you.

I’m trying to get it as pure as I can.

I let the wood have its way; it was my way, too.

THE FAVORITE

THE FAVORITE

I pay the old one well.

He accepts

checks, he spreads

the cheeks of his ass

if I ask, lifts his dick,

peels the foreskin

to show me the hole.

Today I want him

asleep. It takes

three minutes.

Head heavy on the back

of the chair the wood

dug deep against his lip,

gravity suckling

his tits. His robe

a silk ghost

on the lap of the carpet.

I get

my one hour, and then

he leaves, bow-legged,

without saying

goodbye. A woman will never know

the manners

of a whore, no matter

how much or how often

she pays.

The favorite snores.