smoke seemed to rise from the old shack at the bottom of the hill.

i imagine

antlers spanning four feet

a collection of shotguns lined against the wall

a bearskin rug with decades worth of

dust, grime and decay

and the ghosts of bearded hunters.

the dark green woods hide

empty and unmarked wells,

broken pieces of porcelain.

in the winter every creak is a stone amongst stone

i imagine

long hair

dirty nails

emaciation.

an eye for an eye, but he couldn't even do that

just shout and scratch and disappear.

secrets in a musty barn,

a black cat snuck around our ankles and

between the round bales of hay that we climbed

until our small palms made contact with the smooth beams.

when you speak of gold it turns to coal.

black soot on my hands.

the sight of hay makes me sneeze.

garden pot,

 wine spill on the porch,

basil leaves, the veins lined with dirt.

a pile of

thin, orange spears uprooted and tossed away.

sprout stuck between my teeth--i pick you out with care but my gums begin to bleed.
gingivitis, maybe; i always forget to floss.

or too many cigarettes and not enough citrus:
a modern day case of scurvy.

i hope my breath smells fresh as mown grass,
that it won’t deter your mouth from meeting mine.

yet i don’t miss you, exhaust and gasoline,
even though it’s been a long time since you’ve slept next to me.

these nights i lay spread out,
limbs filling every nook of the mattress.

ten a.m. strikes and bleary, my window view is
brick and six inches of sky.

somewhere i smell crows startling sparrows,
seeds scattered in the lawn.

to gina

we ground our heads into the sand

with the intention  of later picking small grains

as our parents cracked open swollen, scarlet lobster claws;

we always thought well in advance.

red and gold

a hapless grin

salt and blood.

i learned to never keep my back to the ocean

when i turned to wave in your direction

and instead met sand hard as cement,

shells scraping skin.

 i'd much prefer the oak tree, to crouch in the branches

and let the spiders gently crawl across my hand

tracing the map that leads to you.

Tuesday Morning

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

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.