Homeless (as a body)
Or lack of -
a point of reference
that’s indistinct.
A buoy with a cracked ring -
Call me drowning
under the wing of clouds.
Call me back to shore
in waters laced with clocks.
Call me undine, or waning.
Call me captain of the moon.
I call for you to come over,
say door or window
say open or closed.
Call it
and watch how quick I bluff.
Call me Atlantic or Pacific,
call me anything but concrete.
I place the keys on the kitchen counter
and call it a night,
sleep with elegies braided into my hair
which unfold in waves by sunrise.
Call me wayward and hungry.
I call for you to whisper coordinates
in my ear, to name my body
like a constellation,
to reserve space in night’s pocket
where it can dock.
**
Comfort food part II
I have spent days here, weeks -
the couch softening the crown
like a friend who talks too much
and holds you there in place despite
needing to use the bathroom.
Cradles you like a half moon
in the abyss of solitude.
It's four legs braced for impact -
A horse who cannot run is just the fallacy of a horse.
Most nights, I shovel familiar names
into my mouth like lovers,
call them over to suppress the feeling
of regret with anything sugar.
The joints are strong enough to hold
the frame of a person who is becoming
less and less visible - and not by mass,
but by significance.
I planned to lose weight this year.
I planned to not lose myself again this year.
My mouth keeps my mind quiet
as long as it is moving,
as long as I can forget to name
the ocean of grief I so easily swallow.
