Three Poems

PASSWORDS

have u ever seen that scene in the goonies where the girl has2 play notes
on the bone organ 2save hrself & all hr friends from that gangv madfacd
weaponpeople while the ground crumbles ncracks & shes taken veryfew
piano lessons & it’s the most major summer of their preteen lives which
is after all what led2 the cave thingn which everyone communicates w/a
dead pirate in the first place

well when my brother died it was a little like that,

w/ the passwords. bc it all depends how prophetic the main players were
back when july soared,

how willing wewere 2sayn advance the world wouldchange, that the sun
willfry us all in2 wheat toast soon enough,
that we were already older,

&in so doing ya- mb we couldv handed off the keys2 the kingdom while
he was still alive, which we did not do,

leaving me 2guess the histories most dear2 him, the Word around which
his deities decked the place w/greco-roman pillars,
any decisions by his heart’s legislature

as2 whom &what he loved so surely he’d remember

***

DEBT COLLECTORS

when my brother died, debt collectors got 2gethr&
organized nightly firepits in my yard-
the citibank ppl &the barclays & chase ppl passed

out marshmallows &sticks w/whittled tips. hospital
billing offices hosted hayrides past my windows
on purpose- i had 2draw the shades

&yea i know they think they bested me w/their
intimidation partypeople tactics- banking
on my nonexistent fomo reflex,

shouldv done better reconnaissance i guess-
parading their group rendition of “sorry not sorry”
on crankedup karaoke

&what they fail2 understand i mean really

underestimate is the belligerence of my watersign
vibe- theyr so on brand
but so am i,

unable to unlove-

&given that this isnt imean even in the top100
countdown of most apocalyptic things ive seen
in this year of the horse,

ive no trouble directing
my newgarden of vampire fangs wet w/devotion
2stay the course

***

TRUMP INTENSIFIES STATEHOOD THREATS IN ATTACK ON CANADA*

having dishonored my father & coveted yr wife,
shadowsv hawks startle
america on the regular. evening hues
persist all day &pine jacks move from green 2blue.
have u seen

the border skunks’ new uniforms? they’re soft-
footed now, dismissive of references2
their former postures,
waving everyone through. i don’t know how
2speak 2 u- canada- whom i loved,

if i’m allowed 2mend or touch.
it doesn’t help 2say i didn’t hurt u- that i’m not
the wicked one,
nor does it help2 offer laments, fanning myself
w/ gauche ngolden palms.

that i’ve been stolen, too, has no utility.
self-pity is boring. so’s the upper hand-
bc i’m blessed & we know it- i’m composed basically
of fruit,
i know my sweetness-

it ravages me. how sorry can i be? i see my own
face- it delights
w/ uncountable secrets, outcast pennies in rain-filled
wells
overgrown w/rinesv blue

how merciful can one be w/ in a placev utter beauty?
i spread a rumor once- i was a child
& it was terrible,
the alphabet reversed & his face dripped
away,

i lowered my head 4months whenever he passed by,
my eyes splintered
w/ my own unintegrated dark. i was right to regret.
i’m right still
2regret it –

i won’t ask yr forgiveness- your spirit is yours.
i’ll grieve separately, as i should, the horizonsv human
generosity:
recalculation of degrees, impossibilities 4true reversal,
the hand that divides our one gorgeous river,

it doesn’t matter whose.
u still have yr fullness- which i hope you’ll let me
see.
& i still have
my wish4 yr wish4 the love that used 2b

*headline from nytimes.com, 3/11/25