Last week, to the man I’ve never met, I sent a text:
I don’t know…what I have to
say, who’s it to? I’m still trying
to figure it out. We write into
Later, the man I’m sleeping with leaves a sticky note on my car,
One word, blinking in my face:
The next morning, I text the man
I’ve never met, again:
What can I do?
I don’t want to be here.
OK. If not here, then where?
There is no nowhere.
I think of the nowhere where there are long baths, and sound.
Where nothing is eaten like honey on a spoon.
The man I’m sleeping with tells me it’s ok to cry and not talk as he’s listening on the other end of the phone.
A dog howls in the neighborhood while I’m sitting in cold bathwater.
The howl seems to come from the deepest part, so deep I do not want to listen, but I am sitting in the water, not wanting to move, ripple things, so I listen.
A girl wakes, crawls out, shudders.
She’s been roaming for days,
I thought, inside.
Shut me away,
Go back inside, shut up, stop
howling, I can’t make my arms be her arms.
As my friend read her poetry to an audience, I dug my nails into my forearm.
I want nowhere.
As I write this, a girl wants blood.
Still, the howling,
Hanging in the air, in the heat,
Missing a fan, sanity.
I called the voice in my head.
There’s a train out now. The dog’s
Not howling anymore. There’s still
The heat pressing on me.
The voice says
Fuck the poets. Why write for anyone?
So I text the man I’m sleeping with after he reads this poem and says
It’s shit. And I have no fan. And
My landlord won’t get it out of
The attic. And I’m going to
Fucking throw my phone out
Then, an ex professor sends me an email:
I always considered writing to be the “unnatural” equivalent of a hard on.
While the man I’m sleeping with sends me the serenity prayer,
A girl wants blood.