tuesday morning
when someone gives my number without permission
when he buys me dinner
when i get hummus all over my face
when i fall asleep and drool on his arm.
if i’d like to.
if you can.
if it’s even a possibility.
in case things don’t work out
in the wake of
really not wanting to get out of bed.
kauai
horseshoe crabs. bonfires. waves crashing right outside your ear—
don’t kiss a toad, you’ll get warts.
heavy ripe mangoes. a gecko in the sugar bowl.
the door slams during dinner
don’t worry, he tells you, it’s just the ghosts.
ketchup on rice. ketchup on eggs, toast, noodles.
the hurricane swept through the house, caught on film.
half his face gone after the accident thirteen years later.
they say the woman had to hold it on with a wet towel,
waiting for the ambulance to arrive.
a punctured lung, a broken hip, crystal meth.
three children. one grandson.
slide guitar. ukulele. a scar across the chest.
the best way to get away from a shark is to get its eyes.
the waves crash. crickets chirp.
the heavy smell of overripe mangoes lingers in the air.
i want to melt into my bicycle
and let the wheels turn on their own.
a piece of wheat grass
and thirteen kilometers later
you tell me you love me
and i’m okay with that
and with not loving you back.
i will devour you slowly
while a snail runs
backwards into its shell.
