resuscitation

this: the summersmell
of sun’s warmth smoothed
on entwined skins & their mattress promises;

his weight against the crescent of your womb
& peach moonshine on late indian half-full
nights, amber-fingered and dripping

like candleflame through open windows;
the sweat that beads on scars; the slight lightening
of irides from hardwood to hazel

in riverlight on a Sunday afternoon
under a sky like September
with clouds like a ribcage

spread in a deeper inhale.
it is enough to make you feel like drowning,
like you are being brought back

to life. some days they can pull you
from the pull of the water.
some days you simply sink.

Ithaca, also, was built on the water

river rocks

I am dreaming again of riverafternoons
and your sunlit irides, floodlevel love
on time we borrowed until we stole.
Funny how the past you think of is never
the past that was; the present tenuous as rain
streamlit down the windows of my old place
by the river, all plateglass & whiskey;
my future self’s heart pinched between thumb
and dirt-traced forefinger, whirlpooled in muddy waters,
slipping over rocks. If I knew her now I would say
never mind the scars. There is peace even in the drowning;
the trains will sound their slow mourners’
wail over curves of forever, tonight’s tornado
warning only a siren on the horizon.

Pouring out the bitter

You don’t tell me you love me
and I don’t tell you I know it. Instead
I make plans, steal words, write
poems you’ll never read, pour out the bitter
into the river’s swollen april browns,
swallow down cheap malt liquor,
drown the cheap lines and nights
alone with afternoons under the same rainy
roof, just like we used to, the smell
of your skin still intoxicating, only
you don’t tell me you love me,
and I pretend I don’t notice, put my clothes
back on, write the poems. And
do you know? I’ve had worse hangovers.