on physics.

if we cut our hearts out of our chests and threw them off of a building, whose would hit the ground first, mine or yours? hint: the laws of gravity do not apply.

suppose.

Suppose the dishes in the sink were never washed,
and they just kept mountaining to overwhelming heights
until they broke through the ceiling
and the plaster coated our heads like dandruff.
Would you climb it with me?

Suppose we scaled that summit of silverware and glass
with just our hands, convictions and wills,
do you think we'd make it to the top
or would we have to lighten our load?

Suppose we rested along the way,
and you were starving to death—
if I slipped my hand in one of the ceramic crevices,
would I find that cake I baked for you, so many months ago, untouched?
This time, would you eat it?

Suppose I didn't know my way around the kitchen,
would you still love me regardless?

Suppose I pushed you off the side,
would you, like a dish, shard into a million porcelain pieces,
or would you survive the fall unscathed?

Suppose I just did the dishes,
would you then stay home for dinner
or would you still go out to eat instead?

the great eclipse of 1831

Everyone knew it was coming.
On the day of the eclipse
Business was suspended
For every man, woman and child was stargazing.
Peering through panes of smoked glass,
Necks outstretched, pupils dilated,
America anxiously watched—
Some choking on their Adam’s apples,
Others gripping their quivering hearts.
Most praying, a few drinking—
As daylight waned
And the inky moon,
As though dipped in oil,
Snuffed out the sun.

“Keep your gaze turned up towards the heavens”
My graying aunt tells me.
“They’re coming for us, I promise”

I believe the tales my aunt spins,
Because she believes in my own lunacy,
And I happily swallow her advice.
Each night, I watch the empty sky, waiting,
Hoping to catch a glimpse
Of an alien lightshow,
Ready to mow crop circles
In my front yard
Asking them kindly
To beam me up off of this planet.

And I’d never look back.

anniversary

I remember sitting in the kitchen by the telephone, waiting.
A friend was standing at the stove, watching water boil,
Another was crouching under the table
More than sure the sky was about to fall,
That the world was ending.
Addie was in the bathroom
Pissing on a pregnancy test.
We were all waiting.

I had just fallen out of a relationship—
My heart was raw.
You had just turned twenty-four
And you had an age complex.
You thought that I was too young for you,
So you fled the scene, like a child.

I tried to warm myself with a cup of piping hot coffee—
An attempt to psychically fan and rekindle the flames of dying love.
I burnt my tongue instead.

And as I pressed my hand to the window, the cold burned me through the glass as well.
The sky was grey, the landscape barren and dead.
It was winter, and we all wanted to die.

For a brief moment
I too believed the sky was falling
So I quickly drew the curtains
Shielding us from the world,
Trying to hide from the painful truths
Of our reality.

Addie emerged.
She was pregnant.
“How do I kill it?” she asked
As the water boiled over the brim of the pot.




It’s January
You recently turned twenty-five.
And still I find myself
Waiting by the telephone,
Waiting
For you to grow up
And call me.