PINK LASSO

You are so full
of vending machines.
You are practically
a hospital. I am
appearing drastic,
just like the symptom
you read about, with
my sweat and my
laugh, drinking
orange juice,
looking good in
a blue gown, and
there were two
options: girl or
symptom. Let’s
not be romanced
by a single mood.
When I called you
“friend,” I was being
original. Your sneakers
look flat and scared in
the fluorescent light.
So many cows, man.
You say in the background.
Your hat deflates.
I compared my vagina
to a cowboy, and
told you: “my vagina
is like a cowboy.”
I don’t mean to brag,
but my gums are
receding. My fly is
down. My lasso is
at least half
body, nearing another
white wall, another
machine, don’t ask why
I told them, don’t put
your head in my lap
and ask why did
I tell them, because
I’m riding at dawn,
a woman with
a dose and a friend,
so many cows,
right on the inside of it,
under the pink
decision, the pink light,
recommended by
psychiatrists everywhere.

INSERT ROMANCE

I’m in a bad.
You could say: mood.

I killed a bug in the bathtub.
I played a tuba in the snow.

I would like to know
what to abide by.

Merry Christmas?
This plastic saint is expensive.

My blood flows
and goes, rhetorical.

I’m a terrible.
You could say: person.

Now, I can’t see the end.
You win some.

You amuse some.
Liking only your own fool.

I’d rather you say “dancer.”
Insert romance.

A blue candle.
A brass instrument.

And a Happy New Year?
That’s one short serenade.

At the wrong window.
Even I court my own rule.

HOSPITAL POEM

Afterwards, I shaved
my head. Succinct,
the mirrors—saying,
and not murmuring,
“dare” and I only knew
my path, and my path
was a sidewalk, and
I was in, out, like
I transferred
the future without
difficulty or question.
There weren’t many
windows. It was sweet
and selfish, and I
laughed in blue scrubs.
She told me not to
get tattoos on my
fingers and showed me
hers: “Always.” Rubbed off
and away. “We broke up.”
I listened to birdcalls
on a machine,
like voicemails. Except
there was a window, and
through it was
February, and someone
was on their way.
No plastic knives.
I ate peanut butter
with a straw.
We feared
the outside world
because there were
parking decks where
we would sit, calm,
without crying and
we would walk away,
shocked. That came
later. When I saw
my face, hot and
scared, in that
mirror, and it came
later, too, it all came
later until now, I knew
that I had chosen
“I” as my shortest word.
On the communal
phone, my lover read me
the first lines of
a Hart Crane poem.
I did not know about
the ship. In fact,
I was not listening at all.