I took a shower
and washed my sheets
today. I sat on the stoop
read and smoked until
my legs got tired. Soon
I will kiss you in the doorway,
move the hair from your face.
These days are beautiful days.
Whenever I come back from the bathroom
at four in the morning and you are still there
talking in your sleep, I believe in luck
for the first time in my life.
His hand on the doorknob,
he paused, and dropped his bags
to the floor.
Gwendolyn edged to the on ramp.
Home already felt like a memory–
a dream. She smiled as the turn
She still sleeps on her side of the bed
in case he ever decides to come home.
The crib in the garage
collecting dust for two years:
on Sunday they put a white sheet over
it, like a ghost on Halloween.
Grabbing the scotch near the bed,
he decided that the chalky-pill taste
would be a terrible last thing to eat.
She traced his silhouette
with her fingers and said
muffled, into his hair
I’ve always loved you.
The sound was swallowed up
by the follicles.
I’ve never written
a single thing
your glasses left next to the bed
are a photograph. it says,
“we were here and
we were here and
we were smiling and
we were here.” every
thing is a photograph since you.
my mornings, our evenings,
you turning over showing me your
naked back while the day pushes
I’m writing an English-to-English translation of Paterson, by William Carlos Williams to graduate college. It’s long, desperate, agonizing work, but here’s an excerpt from chapter 2 so you can all see what I’ve been up to:
been separated for eighteen years and he still carries her picture in his wallet. This is my entire occupation.
Me and my best friend started a Tumblr. We get drunk together and yell nonsense into our iPhones and whatever Siri comes up with we make it into poems.
my chest shakes when I breathe sometimes
because I can’t afford the second round of
antibiotics for my pneumonia. sometimes
it is said that consumption is a very romantic
way to die and I have always wanted to die
romantically. the wind pushes its way through
the empty day like an impatient child. some
days, nothing speaks to me at all; it’s
late and I am still waiting for your heavy breath–
it’s two in the afternoon and God isn’t listening.
she was holding daddy’s hand
in the drug store today. a full
unmarked white paper bag in front of
them on the fake marble counter.
she squeezes his fingers harder and asks,
“will this make mommy feel better?”
he said, without looking at her
“I don’t think anything
can make mommy feel better,