All the Love Bush
I pretend: your galaxy, mine. But we
found the backside of
homemaking, made a trail
and followed it. We said weave
this pink antibiotic air into a bush.
Float there on me.
there is a play we watch, women
singing songs. There is an eagle
in my eye, there is someone
to talk to. There is the place
where your hand draws weather. It’s simple.
You said, “a cloud,” you got one. I’m not
fearing light today. I’m covered in it.
And the book I
dreamed of, I wrote. My gathering
of fruit sending songs enough to follow a plot. This
evening, mercury nursery, will send
me a poem I won’t hide. Take over
from here. Set me down
under our squeaking ceiling fan.
If you hear guitar notes, wave
the “Actually” away from both of us.
what a weak theory I have built for myself
the daily hurricane in the refrigerator
not yet condensed
the ziploc of fire ants
my tendency to trill
what is warm outside the door
I built such a life out of life, its doctored complications
I made this
these shapes of thin cheeks
I made the tropics into a thin circular theorem
but with a hand in their pincers
I’m starting to connect allergens
to form a pyramid
Out of the Air
he shoots chunks of gold out
of the air, orbiters, to say
“wet heartland” on a pink station
I’m going crazy with the news, gusts
imagining my husband is the eye, where rooms
are quiet and yawning, hacky sack-eyed monsters
riding rain into my attic, my basement is
a puzzle box of limestone and water, so
casually a cactus as to be disregarded, they’re sending
through my window a postcard
with little red
handwriting that says “July 26th is a myth”