sense-and-stupidity

in march I passed over this same place, but it was colder. now the sun shimmers down through layers of black foilage; auburn light spatters and cools in the river in the ravine below. on the bridge, footprints lingered in the frost like breath-marks on a pane of glass; now the wood creaks, cedar so hot it burns its heart out, steams and moans with my body. over the rail, flamingo's legs lie abandoned, the plastic body somewhere buried under ivy, having fallen first from the tree. in march, i passed this same way. my hands and feet still mark the railing; the birds above echo the hymn: my mother wailing

we weave through portland’s drunken streets with hands clasped so long my shoulder shakes. thread pennies out of our pockets to pay the tab. the waitress says we look adorable, and i wonder how many times your eyes have landed on the gap between her black stockings and skirt. i know mine have too. portland threatens to swallow me, cold air and neon spotlights beaming to high heaven. we lick our lips outside the seven-eleven, but don’t kiss. homeless men talk to us about the shopkeeper who left for a smoke; we pretend we are not spending our last five dollars on condoms. key shakes in the hole, doesn’t want to let us

Having reached the time in my sadness when I told the ambulance not to hurry, I tied certain poems to my neck and let them tug me from way up high above this city. It may have resembled a noose, but I promise, they saved me.

existing in my negative is the image of you, standing beneath streetlamps on a damp portland road. your scarf lifts up in the breeze as if reaching for someone in one of these vacant homes. i close my eyes and feel my heart click over to a projector. your dark silhouette flickers over my face. your hands in your pockets, shoulders drawn under a gray down coat. i imagine you are staring at me like i am a hazel angel, my body laid with precision and artificiality in the direct middle of the yellow. scarlet snow and black boots on the tarmac. i imagine you take steps toward me. but the image is so dark, the heart's bulb so scrat

opened womb like a scream, and i’m sorry, and i’m not sorry, and he—

i am ugly. so. my mother kisses me goodbye every august. i carry her love inside me like a heavy suitcase. some days. yes. i have to heave my troubles behind me, they are so heavy. heaviness means nothing to me. if self-love were a 150 pound sort of love, i would carry it with me forever now. so. my words are fat from being inside of me so long. they are not modest about their bodies. i no longer care for the world’s feelings of anger. they say it’s possible now. recover. now. like flipping your pillow. you can do it now. so. i argue that it’s always been possible. i have never encountered a word in my entire life that i co