For a while in the wood I was drawing scissors. Before the

dance, before your hands, I didn’t even have a premonition

of you, no black mark against the moon, no bad dream

folded into the sheet, it was just me, and that old table, and

my model, lying in my lap. I’d found them in a drawer of

useless things—snapped rubber bands, birthday candles,

half a package of yellowed paper plates. Silver blades, brass

handle, I tested the tips against the side of my finger—oh,

they could cut, those scissors, but not there, no, you couldn’t

chop a tree with them, or make a path; the wood wanted

harder things, a knife, an ax. When I found a loose thread on

my shirt I didn’t think of the scissors, her legs spread on the

table beside the bed: I just put the hem to my lips and bit.

INTAGLIO

INTAGLIO

The striped mattress, how thin it was, the wire cot beneath

biting into my bones the blankets

folded double did not help.

I don’t know what makes a person willing.

One evening I ran out of ink

and that same evening you brought me three new jars

and we sat testing them to see

if the different colors had different smells

or if black was really distinguishable

via a faint taste of licorice. We laughed like pigs.

Showing each other our colored tongues.

You put your head on my shoulder

and knocked a drop of ink on the mattress,

where it bloomed

and darkened

and dried. I got quiet, watching it.

What, you said.

I shook my head.

I had stripped myself of every other longing,

of every possible

human comfort but in that moment, eating poison

from the jars,

how wealthy I was, how fragile, how strong, like the strange

skin of a bubble that can resist so much and then

nothing at all.

I watched my happiness sink through the unmade bed

where the blanket had been pushed aside,

one stain among many.

Open your mouth, you said,

and I did,

but it was too late, and the mattress was dry.

LABYRINTH

LABYRINTH

I drove       looking          for your house       your car white       I had never been       inside

license plate       memorized       it’s not    this       driveway       this

dead       lawn       No flags          for you no       cheap          holiday       decoration

lashing the       bushes       you had          money. Lots          of land       somewhere       my car

couldn’t take me.          Miles of       trees       I       cried    after three hours       circling

the same       mailbox       out of gas.       Someone       came by       with a can

filled me          up       I          could       have    fucked him/       didn’t.       I saw

the pictures.          Your          back       door.       The dog

licking       the          screen    the endless green          of your kingdom       your arms

spread       wide       and the only       truly cruel thing       you ever said

Darling,                you will never find it.

MOTHER

MOTHER

It’s Christmas.

I know.

You have something to cook on there?

Mom.