Two Poems

45 Oak

     after Emily Dix Thomas

My new apartment’s quiet 

without your cello looping 

off the coast. It was a wave, 

of course. Hi to the cherry tree

briefly in bloom. Hi to our revolving

third roommate, cursed as a fat cat’s 

shit on the floor, fermenting

leftovers in the fridge, an ex

more than once. LESBIAN BED DEATH

koozies. CRY EVERYWHERE t-shirts.

Cuzn, I’ve been thinking. 

Family is just commitment

to the bit, and there’s light late 

in the afternoon. Paisley velvet 

couch, springs busted, us reading 

the same novel on the same day. 

Roasting marshmallows over the flame 

of a many-wicked candle. Splitting that half-gallon 

of mint-chip with the tiniest spoons. 

House motto: Everything on a bed of greens. 

New Year’s resolution: more butter. 

I put on your record 

whenever I miss you. I drop frozen 

berries in mocktails and take long walks 

on Arthur’s moon. Each step

moves me. I can still recall 

the feeling of the fall, sudden 

and steady, the air thin 

as strings plucked again

and again, the stars constellated 

meaninglessly, the two of us

applying lipstick in the mirror

better than whatever came next.

Superlatives at 30 

Scratch churchliest, stash jiggliest. 

I’m campaigning for friendliest now 

that I outgrew my alien aptitude for small talk

and predisposition to place liens on personal 

library loans. O erstwhile cavalier

heart! Holier-than-thou and reluctant to pop 

wheelies for just anyone. How unevenly

I julienned my warmth. How thoroughly

I misbelieved in scarcity, underestimated who deserves

my ebullience and how much I have

to plier out. There’s no need to be that petty 

little clique lieutenant. Not when 

butterflies land indiscriminately. Not when I have 

too often relied on strange kindnesses.