unclaimed aubade

in front of Anselm Keifer, Landscape with Wing

paint splashed and smeared inside the shape of a body's
absence is dry by the time you step around it, unsure if it was
beauty or a mistake. down a flight of stairs a translucent nude
imitates your hypothetical way of walking. five-hundred and
thirty-five hands down my throat. and surely, other wings have
been made of iron. surely, in this great broken-glass history,

in the levels rising it pulses to shore, what remains of your
leviathan. a toxic, a swirling so bright-green it could turn a

superhero. for FTM's on HRT, the rapid expansion of the
vocal cords within the voice box can lead to a phenomenon

called vocal entrapment. i was hoping we could meet up. i was
hoping we could meet up and talk. i was hoping you could--

my feet have had me dragging like this. all across the land-
scape, sacrificial goat consulting maps like where can i find

the American Wing? i grip the pole and i prance. i practice
my lyrical landing, my slide into a heap to be salvaged.

i'm tired of this game. let's play the other one. the one
where you spend my money and text me after. where you

tell me how you'll ruin me, how you'll make me beauty
or a mistake. twin beds on a baggage carousel, circling,

tied to either one, and trapped like me in the terminal are
swallows i think, and i, i am circling with the baggage, waiting

to be claimed. the carousel is moving fast, and i keep passing
and passing on my radiant pony. and daddy! you are looking

down at your phone. daddy! claim me! i'm your checked fact.
i'll be your good little fact. so good i correct myself.

you can jump off hypothetically, and you'll still be sitting
above me on the ledge, dangling your feet.

i can tear out five hundred and thirty five adams apples and
swallow them but that won't make them mine.

a vocabulary crystallizes around the shape of a noticeable lack.
sir, ma'am. fingerprints on the outside and the inside.

i wake up in my glass box. i text you good morning.

of eternal recurrence

I.
dropping off the box the artist's easel came in
styrofoam should be outlawed
said john, who helped me break it down
i asked what i should do
about this cooler someone's grandma's steaks came in
it can’t be recycled but you could use it again
i decided to call john by his name
even though name tags make me uncomfortable
what right do i have to know what to call you
but he seemed like he’d like to be referred to
there are days when we know we exist & days
we are less sure

II.
a bee was fumbling against the inside of the window screen
must’ve forgotten its way out
i heard you’re thinking of leaving town
that was what i said
your lower lip trembled
i looked out over the graves
what was there to say
we set it up wrong and had to take it apart again like three
times
the instructions were a loose guideline
this is all i have to say
your silk shirt is wet under the arms
i am holding so tight to each time i see you