In high school

there is hair
growing on my
upper lip, and
the boys laugh
at lunch when
I blush. And
with their laughs
I blush again.
Sometimes
to avoid them
I eat in the library
with my friend
Rachel Newmiller.
She is allergic to
everything—
even the smell
of eggs as
they cook.

Sometimes I don’t
eat at all because
I only brought
a peanut butter
& jelly sandwich,
and a single whiff
could kill. So
when I finally
get home I’m
starving. Straight
to the basement,
I eat Fig Newtons
from the pack,
and I eat them
all, pushing
fear down my
esophagus.

I feel it hit my
stomach, and it
sits there for
a while. I sit
on the couch
for hours without
doing any work,
always Law & Order
reruns. I know them
by heart.

Plus, my mom
has been distant,
since last week
when I called her
a bitch. It’s the
first thing that
came out, and
in the moment
it seemed to do
the trick. I never
really think things
through. And
procrastination
is becoming a
problem.

In biology class,
we learn about
brain chemicals.
My friends take
Adderall to stay
awake, to lose
weight. My parents
never say the
word psychiatrist.
Instead: “Perk
up.” Sometimes:
“Snap out of it.”
But it’s not
always so easy
to find an answer
when you don’t
know the question.
And I’m starting
to wonder if
I can be myself
without being
alone.

Bedtime Stories

You say that I'm the best you’ve ever had
and read me a short story—Bikini-clad girls
at the A&P, and I slink into the sheets.
You say, "How very foolish love can be."
You say, "Let’s eat ice cream with our toes."
I say, "That’s silly," but our bodies seem to fit,
and I will pull yours into mine,
your hand resting on my thigh.
I say, "I haven’t shaved my legs in weeks."
And you smell like pineapples,
with a little touch of sweat, so sweet.
You say, "Who cares, it’s mostly blonde,"
and when I finally fall asleep,
you whisper something to yourself.
You say that I'm the only one you’ve ever had.

Frozen Croissants

I'll bum a pack
of cigarettes
from my neighbor
who is French,
for when you
wake up and
are hungry and
me, horny.

You can smoke them
on the balcony. 
There's not much
of a view, only
11th avenue
construction, and
you'll have to
close the door
behind you, since
my dog's allergic.
to the smell.

And if you want
I'll make you
the old packet
of croissants
from the freezer.
I like to watch
them rise, so
I'll press my face
against the oven
window,
and when I do,
I'll probably want
to stick my head
inside as well.

It is Raining

And we won’t sit on the grass. It’s too wet.
But in the park I’ll sleep on your shoulder
and at night I’ll sleep in your bed on a
pillow of feathers with our legs wound up

like the knot of a pretzel. The warmth on
my thigh makes me feel whole and it’s raining
outside the window. Shot glasses on the
living room table and I’ll drink you up.

I’ll roll over your body in waves and
try to forget that I’m not the only
one, and when you take me out to dinner
you have spinach in your teeth. But I'll read

the lines of your face in my sleep, unab-
le to wake. It’s the only way to dream.

First Poem for You

I like to touch your tattoos in complete
darkness, when I can’t see them. I’m sure of
where they are, know by heart the neat
lines of lightning pulsing just above
your nipple, can find, as if by instinct, the blue
swirls of water on your shoulder where a serpent
twists, facing a dragon. When I pull you

to me, taking you until we’re spent
and quiet on the sheets, I love to kiss
the pictures in your skin. They’ll last until
you’re seared to ashes; whatever persists
or turns to pain between us, they will still
be there. Such permanence is terrifying.
So I touch them in the dark; but touch them, trying.

-Kim Addonizio

Dear Daughter

If I were a better mom,
I would build you wings
to fly away. But I am not
an engineer. I’ve never
been that great with words, 
but I can use a pen. When
you need it I will draw your
name upon a page, hold
back your golden hair
as you get sick into my
leather shoe.

And I will let you wear my
cashmere sweater, paint
your lips with sticky sheen
and stay out late to “study
calc.” I won’t even ask about
your boyfriend, if you have
one, but I really hope you’d
tell me first.

And if you would only stay
this small then I could put
you in my jacket pocket,
next to clinking car keys,
my lucky Krone and a
tissue for your runny nose.
I will drive you in my
Volvo down the street that
never ends, always avoiding
potholes, since flat tires cost
more money than I’d ever
like to share.

And maybe one day you’ll
bite a hole right through the
pocket’s bottom, slip without
a whisper to the floor. And I
can’t find another tissue, so
I’ll put a Band-Aid on instead
and watch you go. 

Sunday Mornings

You lay on your stomach
with your arm around
my waist, pizza crumbs
on the snow-white sheets, 
my body cold from the fan.
But I can't sleep without
the noise. And when the light
sneaks through the window
I ask what you're thinking. 
You say your head's empty, 
pounding from the gin
but with only me in mind, 
and you came so fast
I didn't even notice. That’s
the problem with condoms.

Last night we played
Shit Happens, a game
you brought with drugstore
wine. I never drink red.
Stains my teeth. And I
grab the hat you found in
Times Square, muss your
grey-streaked hair till you
shake off my touch. 

You say I’m sexy as hell.
I say, “I’m mostly just regular.”
And we won’t get out of bed
because it’s Sunday and we
hate folding laundry. We will
watch Zootopia on Netflix, close
our eyes and clear our minds,
so that I never have to wonder
if this will be enough.

IMG_8083.jpg

Ars Poetica

Bought a fountain pen at 21,
swapped tequila for shots of
purple ink. And in my backpack
I only have an envelope, but I
will mark up every inch. I will write
your name 100 times. I will buy 99
more pens and write a 100 letters
just for you—each with 100 words—
and I will find 100 different ways
to say you are the only one.
Snow-white surface that
smudges stain, overworked
and there is blood dripping from my
fingers, nibs that prick. 

Eating Poetry

Ink runs from the corners of my mouth.
There is no happiness like mine.
I have been eating poetry.  

The librarian does not believe what she sees.
Her eyes are sad
and she walks with her hands in her dress.  

The poems are gone.
The light is dim.
The dogs are on the basement stairs and coming up.  

Their eyeballs roll,
their blond legs burn like brush.
The poor librarian begins to stamp her feet and weep.  

She does not understand.
When I get on my knees and lick her hand,
she screams.

I am a new man.
I snarl at her and bark.
I romp with joy in the bookish dark.

-Mark Strand

Pomegranate

A woman walks by the bench I’m sitting on
with her dog that looks part Lab, part Buick,
stops and asks if I would like to dance.
I smile, tell her of course I do. We decide
on a waltz that she begins to hum.

We spin and sway across the street in between
parked cars and I can tell she realizes
she chose a man who understands the rhythm
of sand, the boundaries of thought. We glide
and Fred and Ginger might come to mind or
a breeze filled with the scent of flowers of your choice.
Coffee stops flowing as a waitress stares out the window
of a diner while I lead my partner back across the street.

When we come to the end of our dance,
we compliment each other and to repay the favor
I tell her to be careful since the world comes to an end
three blocks to the east of where we stand. Then
I remind her as long as there is a ’59 Cadillac parked
somewhere in a backyard between here and Boise
she will dance again.

As she leaves content with her dog, its tail wagging
like gossip, I am convinced now more than ever
that I once held hundreds of roses in my hands
the first time I cut open a pomegranate.

-Kevin Pilkington

Happy Birthday

Today is my dad's 56th birthday. This morning I got a call from Noy. I miss hearing his voice. It almost doesn't seem fair that two people could fit so well, one in the other and vice versa. Passing through each other for only a short while. But it has felt so long. A distinct beginning and a brutal end, sure, but the span of a lifetime really. It is nothing like I have ever felt before. Yet I was left with this beautiful energy and light spirit, and strangely a sense of joy and hopefulness. It is a day I want to remember for the entirety of my life. I will.

Every man I come across will be forever in comparison. What a truly terrible fate to which that man is doomed. These things are out of my control. 

I have decided today that I will write the book he had proposed in bed. I will write it to him, but mostly for myself. I feel confident that this is the path my life was meant to take. But how truly tragic love has shown itself. Truly enchanting.

Spaghetti for Dinner

I peel oranges in the kitchen
and the smell soaks through
my hands. They say citrus is
a stress-reliever and it’s
5:30 now, but I cannot feel you at
my shoulder, tilted hips and
if it had been a smaller vase
I broke, a cooler day, then maybe
you’d have lingered longer in the
corner of the room. I think you
would have laughed at the
commotion, lit a cigarette inside
the house although you know
it’s not allowed. Sometimes
these things are out of our
control, like the way your mother
cooks, New York City traffic and
heart attacks at night. I read
fairytales aloud, only to myself,
but maybe you will listen. I
always did believe in magic,
what I gleaned from the TV.
“Hopeful even when it’s
hopeless.” You told me that’s
my fatal flaw. I never wanted
to be Wonder Woman, nor alone,
still I will make two servings of
spaghetti, tulips on the table
and I will eat for us both.