When the Thwaites glacier thawed, the news prattled /
about how stock in plastic water bottles fell /

I forgot how to take off my shoes /
How do normal people /
Take off their shoes /

Marilka went on so many walks her arms disappeared /
regressing inside her clavicle like two large ropes /

The door opens like tree boughs reaching for /
the sun, and you’re sure /
you didn’t move, but the floor moves you inside /
like wind buoying a bird through its branches /

When will they regard the autonomy of a woman’s hard /
decision with the same religion of just looking up /
with the same faith and leaping to conclusions /
That they do to us?

In the autumn, we trek /
Into the Red Grove /
Where the little fox-fires grow /

The face in the window /
Much like a small moon /
Pitted and reflecting /
The light from my lamp /

Success looks like crying at night /
when you’ve overcome the ticking /
of the clock, ever listing what it wants /

How do I tell you I no longer lift my hands /
Or grind my knees down to the guilt /

There, a small twinge in my armpit/
I’m sure it’s nothing bad /
It’s happened for the last three days /
I try not to think of that /

There’s a swing that appears /
on overcast days—not when it rains /
no, and not when it sprinkles, but when the /
geese honk overhead in giant arrows in the sky /

The house is clean so there’s nothing to stop me /
The dishes are fed and asleep /
The curtains are bare and looking out sweetly /
The nightstands are two whiskeys deep /

I have encountered Conquest /
A herald seraphim /
A harbinger of sacred fervor /
Wrapped all up in righteous sins /

What if all the stars worked a 9-5 with-
out healthcare or matching 401(k)s?
Would they shine so bright or
their long light arms reach Earth?

Lobsters don’t die from old age /
They just get tired of moulting and shouldering /
All the necessary sadness a being needs /
To move from shell to shell /

The whistlers wheel through the sky /
Those skeleton birds, the wind /
Playing a dirge through their bones /

Cover your ears, child /
Hear only the trees now /

Men also love scalp massages /
and trailed fingers in their hair /

The crimson leaf pile near the street drain /
Has a picture of reasons for you to skip down the walk /

A phantom muscle in my brain /
Works on weekends and overtime /
To convince me that I’m imminent /
Just that, imminent /