It is the grasping, desperate way

in which he takes in air – his gulping lungs

as if every dream is filled with water

and he is trying to inflate

the life jacket under his skin.

I babble in my sleep. He believes

I am trying to tell him how my heart works,

says he will translate the manual one day.

I want to ask him: am I the ocean?

Are you drowning in everything

I don’t say when I’m awake?

Distraction

The television whines like an ignored

child in the corner of their living room.

Arguments stop mid-insult only to mouth

along to their favorite jingles. They fight

like handfuls of broken silverware, hurling

the name of their 9-month-old distraction

as a knife: this is your problem.

When the baby begins to talk, I wonder

if he will sound like sitcom laughter.

Will he respond only to Regret? His first

words, “I’m sorry.”

O, Economy
(Part 2)

Things I am planning to sell on Craigslist:

blender

book shelf

toothbrush (used)

mint condition textbooks

gym membership

vintage lamp he bought for me on Craigslist

the still-wrapped Christmas present I bought for my sister

a road map

my stuffed panda I puked on when I was 6

an antique chest I found on the street after the flood

the sewing machine my mother taught me to use

the quilt that she made for me with it

the promise I made him

a microwave

heart (used)

27 hangers

this poem

a nice table from IKEA

When the Apocalypse Comes

and all the windows are shattered

and the car tires have melted into the pavement,

once all of the schools and hospitals

and skyscrapers have folded in on themselves

and the last street lamp has wilted like a starving flower,

I will still want to fuck you.

We both know I can’t handle stress well.

I’m anxious, claustrophobic, and things between us

haven’t always been easy—you nitpick, I’m stubborn,

and we have been fighting

over pointless things

like directions,

how you never take me anywhere nice anymore.

I saw the way you smiled at that poet

and her pomegranate metaphors SUCKED.

But sweetheart,

when a meteor crashes through

our kitchen ceiling, I will not panic.

When the locusts envelop the neighborhood

and our shower water thickens to blood,

I promise not to bite my nails.

I won’t even get angry when you don’t answer your phone—

even as the pavement begins to crack and spew like a rotten egg,

you will not get 47 missed phone calls in 4 minutes

(even though we both know it’s possible).

When the news anchor finally tell us the truth—

that there is no hope—I won’t even think about

joining the angry mob outside

our burning apartment building.

Baby, no.

I will put on my least flammable negligee

and I will find you.

I will crawl to you across this curdling parking lot of a city,