Selected Works

Spare Bedroom

There’s a house I sometimes dream you live in:

Victorian remodel, cartouche moulds,

Two-over-two, stained glass dormer, wallpapered ceilings,

Oyster forks with lead paint, fine china bowls.

In that house I dream you live in:

I am too sick or drunk to walk straight,

And you’ve probably drugged me, so you can take advantage of me,

A pitiful waste of your wine.

You’re unpacking my suitcase onto the covers,

You’re asking me to lift my arms over my shoulders.

I am still dreary when you come to check on me,

And I realize I’m in a guest room:

Vanity mirror made of spruce, brass handles.

Garish floral patterns on the bedsheets, gold thread,

Silver holders and long, white candles,

Thick curtains with brussels lace along the edge.

You pulled the blanket back to remove my shoes,

And I still assumed you would be joining me in bed,

Until I saw how your frown had reached your forehead.

Network Television

I guess it’s sort of like an apartment from a sitcom—

my perception at least. I haven’t seen all the rooms.

It’s picturesque like a sitcom, red brick and ducts in the rafters,

candles and Christmas trees tucked into in the corners.

The spare bathroom where you left a violet shirt and

a sticky note from your lover: it’s the extra set

on a bottle episode scripted around the presence

of a crossover character who’s a laced cigarette

to stability and white fences and salad greens and non-starts.

I don’t read the note from your lover,

once I realize it was signed by her,

and I don’t touch the shirt in fear of leaving a mark.

I wear cheap cologne on clearance and stuff

my pockets with nicotine; I write verse about

your slip stitching, rather than touch it;

there is oil and musk and lechery and yellow bleeding from every pore on my body.