The freezer
doesn’t have space for leftovers
I mix in soya sauce & chili paste & coat
each floret. Drip
on the table crumbs, the piano
keys, the blanket curled in patchwork that gathers
skin flakes behind the bed. I could try
submerging
my hands elbow deep in a bowl
where I squeeze honey & coat my lips.
Collect the cauliflower stem in a plastic
bag where it sits for days because
February has locked the green bin
shut, an icy seal on icy mountain.
This keeps raccoons out, true. I slide
down & land, ass first, on the sidewalk.
People skirt around me
& the eggshells & onion
skins, tugging
leashed dogs who just want a lick of honey,
the same that coats my lips. I leave sticky kisses
on the bed, the mirror,
the frosted windowpane.
Vesicular
The pumice stone still holds
your skin. I told you
not to rub so hard but the stone is now more you
than rock so I suppose
I am grateful. I rubbed your feet while the rock dried,
dangling from the shower knob. You wanted to know
if it was really stone. I wanted
to know if your skin would stay
forever. Is five years the same
as forever? You wanted to know
if it would heat up
like lava. I said
we could burn chai in a steel saucepan
& compare the black, spongy residue that left
our liquid smoky. You wanted
to see the pebble smoothed down like the river rocks
that kept our papers down. I just wanted
to see you healed.
Circle in a circle
A garden
boxed by arches
a choir
sings infinitely. Over the shoulder
a hundred concentric circles
move inward. I didn’t
come here for optical
illusions but the music stops
& this concrete block
cools beneath me. The self
sweating in layers now shed
is gone. A garden
sliced out
of a forest
side by side with
the anthropocene side
by side with a painting
of an oiled mechanic. The spiders that crawl
in this dirt
look like stools. They nibble
on silk flowers & my stomach
rumbles. Recorded music rises
up
again & the smell
of dirt
after rain in a room
where skylights don’t leak.
