of blowing it off. I decided to go out

and get a tattoo of your funeral with me not there,

but apparently it’s illegal here to tattoo

a person who’s crying. The trend now

is to be interred with beloved possessions:

pearl-trimmed gun, gold watch,

whatever you’ve got. Some people recoil

at the waste of it, but not me. These contused little

objects of wealth—they’re disgusting. I just

pray we have earth and shovels enough. I pray

we have bodies enough to bury them all.

The Suggested Face for Sorry

The Suggested Face for Sorry

You and me—we are the opposite

of twins in an old story.

When I am in pain, you don’t feel it.

If I up and retch, you never guess.

The city laid out poison

along the tunnels and tracks, meant

for rats, and one day my dog ate some.

She was fine. I’ve never been

so jealous in my life. I want to do

the things we do to die,

and then just take off sprinting

in the steep ravine. In my dream,

I walk my dog and you cross

our path and she torques at you

and rears and snaps. She senses

you are wholly bad. They say animals

can tell, like with earthquakes.

You’re supposed to scan the classifieds,

searching for a sudden spike

in the number of missing pets. That’s

how you know to prepare. Maneuver

away from shelving. Crawl

to the nearest doorframe. Get out

of California. What are you waiting for.

Lying Is Getting

Lying Is Getting

to me. The high-ups instructed me not to tell their dad

about the particulates—the last

time he caught them polluting, he made them sit

themselves down right there and eat a whole smokestack.

I keep nodding when the city insists I stick

with the story of accidents—she was cleaning

her gun, he was cleaning the recessed

sign on the front of the passenger train, they were holding

hands and had a whole plan to clean

the concrete twenty-two stories below the ledge

of the mixed-use downtown

tower. To really make it shine. The party line

is getting me good. I keep turning

my face to the flashbulb in an effort to seem like someone

with no secrets, and now when I see other people

framed and beaming, I want to know what they’re keeping

in. All those holiday moments, tacked

to the fridge or strung up with wire and eyelets. All that sin—

Five by Seven

Five by Seven

Really, when people have photographs of themselves

displayed on their walls, I just assume

they have died and it is their ghosts

who’ve invited me over, their ghosts with whom

I’m sharing a meal, making small

talk about all the bodies and trash on Mount Everest.

Oh lacquered ghosts, so high on your own

finished triptych of fetes

and feats and the corresponding assurance

you go unforgotten—let’s