only when you face a certain way

Once she rested her leg between two front seats,
feeding a ball-shaped knot.

On a new stretch, she glances down to find
red islands
padding over u-shaped casts,
lime squares alternating gray.

She thinks that looming branches eavesdrop,
house the secrets of lungs,
of beading on the crest of necks.

Once she hoped they wouldn’t notice the leg,
the leg floating, dividing
blankets and empty bottles of chocolate milk.

sometimes inspiration can flood you

in a dim-lit room i think
i'll never eat again.

holding each syllable beneath my tongue,
rolling in parabolas of spit;

spit that suspends your alphabet in my mouth,
in tall ceilings, in admirers,
preparing to heave under this weight.

with parted lips; sucking on words,
scarred and powerful, tasting strings
and strings.

your hand fits in my hand

peace means
you frowning on the carpet
near our mother.

character spilling over,
hungry for a match.

it is marked
by the quiet i find
in your bleary eyes,
inspecting,
swallowing what is already in my skin.

and

rest is
pausing
to find that with ambition
i can still cradle you.

moving without precision, but with grace

two eyelids are swollen
under an unfamiliar coral shade

and

the ceiling fan suggests
how to turn it off,
whispers that we'll never know
about standing up
or carrying one thing so heavy:

pure fear of what's in here behind blunt objects
and forced hands looping and unlooping index fingers,
spinning a cheap silver ring.

we establish that once expected,
things that burn easily stall,
and patterns are just shapes
from fabric woven throughout this mess.

copy comes together late

"are you grasping?"
certainly i am.

where a forgotten
outlet stifles
pockmarked concerns,
i've landed
on the fiesta rug.

curling up summaries
of pinched flesh,
messy handwriting,
how to explain this away.

it settles
in lungs,
in a bathtub,
in fingertips
keying a crown
of overheated water.