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The Hotel Botched Seduction
In the film’s first scene, the poet
takes me to his room “to grab
something [he] forgot”; once
there, looks me in the eye. Holds
my gaze like a ripe pear he can’t wait
to devour. Then eyes the bed, sheets taut
as sail. The whole movie is this scene
on repeat, and you, like the main
character (me), will wonder if
I requested this. Deserved this. Said words
as clues on the treasure map leading us
here, where X is the final gunshot
that ends the word sex. His eyes, my eyes.
A bed that gazes into me. The mattress
is an interview. This bed denudes
itself, shows me bleached flesh.
It wants my taste. He points to holy
texts missionaries placed in drawers.
He smiles. He laughs. Each sound disarms
with shame he drapes over me like damp clothes
until I can’t recall arriving, who
cast me in this film. On the cutting room
floor: saying No over wood-fired pizza,
me apologizing like I’d lured him here
to fell him like a Christmas pine.
You won’t see his sweaty highballs
at a club. How I sculpt lips in No, no, no.
Won’t see me dodge his kisses amid
twirled bodies jostling me in their sea.
Won’t see the end. I leave him the street,
taxi’s ass the only one I let him see.
I thought I was a person, his friend
but now I know a body’s all I’ll ever be.
Hollywood Walk of Fame
Here they laid
mosaic where grass
was too much
bother, a gray slab
of rock a tombstone
for something green.
In seven years,
palms planted for
the World’s Fair
will die of old age—
Then what will
Hollywood be?
The junkie at CVS
who begs to be
acknowledged, the glass
and steel high rise,
a knife fight just
about to break out,
the wrecks of dreams,
some stars scattered
on the sidewalk with
the names of those
who died, as if
that’s all they left behind.
Thirty-eight Postcards from a Vacation
1. Traffic flexing like a murmuration of starlings forming inkblots
2. Near death experience provided by Dodge Charger
3. Embracing in the cool air of the desert hotel room
4. His kiss
5. By the pool, the shock of light on water’s chopped glass
6. The shushing lips of misters blowing raspberries
7. He takes my hand across the dinner table
8. The flush in my face is a blossoming
9. Pointing out Orion’s belt above the condo complex
10. The perfect seam between our bodies in the bed is master tailoring
11. Vinyl records, the musty scent of other lives embedded in their jackets
12. Paloma’s tart bite chased by tequila’s medicine
13. Who am I after this—because of this—in spite of this—
14. He has perfect eyes; they invented a blue I’ve never seen before
15. Brunch in the modernist patio home—bacon brine hovering like gossip
16. The perfect chair exists and it has held me like a treasure
17. Louie the cat in my personal space, not a fear in this world
18. He holds my hand beneath the table
19. Toward Los Angeles, back facing the desert, just there-and-back
20. I wake up one year older; the earth shivers until one photo pratfalls on its shelf
21. Back facing Los Angeles, toward the desert some hours later
22. We embrace again in the cool air of another desert hotel room
23. He takes me to dinner and is the most beautiful person I can think of
24. The server placing a candle in the slice of cake
25. He says, make a wish
26. I know exactly what it is
27. I vanquish fire
28. He murmurs through sleep, I apply my body as a salve
29. I could lose this, which I do not possess, a fact I must accept each day
30. He does not want to leave and finds excuses to delay what we both know will pass
31. You want to grab a coffee? he asks, but it means, will you stay with me a little longer
32. I will stay with you a little longer
33. I will stay with you as long as I can
34.
35. When I drive away, I am certain I have left something essential behind
36. I long for it the rest of the day, curious as a tongue seeking a missing tooth
37. But I know he exists
38. For now that is all I need to know
Last Week in the United States
I rushed through the week to get to Saturday,
eager to forget what happened Monday.
A hot bath, a cocktail planned for Friday.
Promised myself extra sleep for Tuesday.
Binged Netflix alone on Thursday.
Someone bought a gun on Wednesday.
Someone tweeted “It’s Hump Day!” on Wednesday
A political sex scandal broke on Saturday.
They passed a voter suppression law on Thursday.
Someone bought a gun on Monday.
Someone bought bullets on Tuesday.
Someone planned a happy hour for Friday,
over Zoom, not your usual happy hour Friday.
Someone drove a car through a barricade on Wednesday.
Someone bought a gun on Tuesday.
A Black child was shot by a cop on Saturday.
The protesters still walked on Monday.
The protesters still walked on Thursday.
It was a beautiful day for hiking the hills on Thursday.
Someone bought a gun on Friday.
Metal detectors went into the Capitol on Monday.
The jurors went into deliberation on Wednesday.
We hadn’t heard a verdict by Saturday.
I made a casual dinner date for Tuesday.
But he moved it to next week Tuesday.
Someone bought a gun on Thursday.
We were all so worn out by Saturday.
We were all so worn out by Friday.
We were all so worn out by Wednesday.
We were all so worn out by Monday:
There was a mass shooting on Monday.
Another mass shooting on Tuesday.
A mass shooting on Wednesday.
Yet another mass shooting on Thursday.
A mass shooting followed on Friday.
A mass shooting Saturday.
We grieved for Monday’s dead on Thursday.
We grieved for Friday’s dead on Tuesday.
We grieved for Saturday’s dead on Wednesday.
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