My gut glenched
Heart thudding fast
When he sat beside me
Heavy scent of laundry detergent
Stinging my nose
Rolling my stomach
I do not know this man
But the familiarity
That is discomfort 
Of being around a man
Burns acidic 

you, the boy
that is you,
begin alone
in a blue hole
lacking awareness
of the inciting
incident to come,
which is a cosmic
creature revealing
your weakness
to yourself.

Idaho sun
rises burning
pink after
the soccer team,
your small town
brothers, hate
crime you.

at a pool party,
you throw
up your heart.
in hell, they tear
off your wings.

but the story
loves you, so
it gives you
love, mystical.
it completes you
and puts you
to bed
to dream the dream
of real life.

almost three years
on our favorite
planet

questions tumble
from her unbridled
ponytail

what happened
to your sock
daddy can we fix it

what happened
to your water bottle
did the airplane drop it

what happened
to that tree

can we make it
tree again

Potential energy
is stored energy.

Energy waiting
for the right conditions.

A boulder
at the top of a hill.

A spring
compressed.

The composed text
sitting in my drafts.

Waiting for me
to hit send.

The energy contained
within that bubble

could power
a midsized city.

Limerence is baffling.

Like a hydroelectric dam
built across
a seasonal creek.

Every delayed text
powers a refrigerator.

Every glance
generates enough electricity
to illuminate
Madison Square Garden.

I wake up
with the productivity
of a trading floor.

I have cleaned my apartment.
Written three poems.
Done two loads of laundry.
Researched Mediterranean airfare.
Started learning Greek.

None of this
has brought me
any closer
to the person.

The energy
cannot find
its intended outlet.

It spills
into neighboring systems.

This may explain at least
half of human achievement.

Liszt composes
“Liebestraum No. 3.”

Barrett Browning’s
Sonnets from the Portuguese.

Someone else
checks socials
forty-seven times
before lunch.

The trick of limerence
is that you think
you are building
something
with another person.

Really
you are learning
how much electricity
can be generated
from a single spark
within.

Eventually
the façade fades.

The dam opens.
The reservoir drains.
The river returns
to its ordinary course.

And yet
I remain enamoured.

Not with the person.

Not with my art,
my work,
my productivity.

With the potential
energy of a heart
I know
is pumping and bleeding
and living and dying.

I only noticed because it
stuck out from the tall grass
Tried to push it down
but it wouldn’t go

The old habits finally didn’t work
i receded into myself 
stoned, high and unable to talk

After the agoraphobic climax passed
I hopped on the wagon
Thought the cracks were fixed
but water keeps seeping in

So just take the dam down
and let yourself get wet

Spring arrived fashionably late,
Dressed for success but stewed in sweat
As though straight from a morning jog.  

But it wasn’t a jog that caused the sweat—no,
It took too much codeine for a papercut
And it’s bringing bouquets of daffodils
To apologize.  

You say to Spring, motioning around the veranda,
“Look at the family, they’re all
Frozen solid; how are we going to explain this
To Easter?”  

Uncle Earl had his hand half-raised
As though he wished to share his latest health scare
But, uncharacteristically, wasn’t sure what to say; 
His lips were parted too—
His rants on respecting the national anthem
Were classics of the Thanksgiving meltdown
Genre, as were his profane jeers
Of pop singers as they performed it—  

But he was a cube. They all were cubes.  

“Are there statues in the Parthenon?” Spring asks.
“What did you ask me?” you say.
“Are there statues in the Parthenon?” Spring repeats.
Upon seeing your scowl, Spring adds, with a sense of defeat,
“Just trying to class the place up.”  

It waves its wand drowsily
And the world transitions—yes,the fam included—
From cryogenics into clothing
That no longer fits but nonetheless advertises thigh tattoos.  

For its part, Spring retrieves a couple of cages
Full of bunny rabbits from its car,
Sips a tequila sunrise and cries
Like there’s no tomorrow.

The sweet lady who bought my house
and saves my unforwarded mail texts me:

Did anything strange ever happen when you lived here? 
Her dogs look up and bark at nothing.
A book has flown off of a shelf.
She says she doesn’t feel safe

in the home where I rebuilt myself.
I restored the house, over a century old,
sorely abused and auctioned off, but
nothing weird ever happened to me there,

not even after midnight, 
not even when I asked for it! 
begging my late husband so many nights to visit 
because he appeared only in dreams–

        a Cheerios box for a chest
        with a slit from top to bottom
        that he opened like a vest to reveal 
        a nest of straw 

        or shuffling along the farm’s gravel road
        in his Carhartt coveralls, using a shovel like a walking stick
        I told him he needed to go lie down
        his skin was the color of an old celery stalk

        only once did he show up looking normal
        for dinner at the big house on the farm, 
        kiss me, and say, I saved you a seat

        most often he showed up with a carload of buddies
        and dumped me for someone else,
        left me stranded in unfamiliar cities–

        the sole way my brain could process severed love.

Gosh, I’m so sorry, I reply. Nothing like that ever happened to me!
Later, I show the texts to my daughter
who reminds me when she spent the night and saw
a man’s shadow walk through the kitchen into a wall.

Any ghost must have felt
no point in bothering me.

It starts with electricity

hanging in the air,

a change of direction

in the wind,

the goosebumps

on my skin.

My spirit is heavy,

like a curtain

of torrential rainfall

around me.

Too much,

too soon,

and I’ll be drowning.

The pit in my stomach

the size of a peach seed,

for now,

uneasy

like a predator

on the prowl.

It’s familiar,

yet different.

I can’t help but think:

What is it?

I’ve been seeing the cues

and following the clues

that whisper

everything is static.

I’ve seen the signs.

I know the times.

It’s bound to begin.

Change is coming around

to unsettle me again.

That’s okay.

Change is my friend.

I miss my grandmother every day
and only this week
uncovered another level of that grief

but I cannot see her
as a constellation
even though I know that should be a comfort.

My grandmother
placing rows of canned beets
in an earth-floored cellar.

My grandmother picking stones and
blemished potatoes from a conveyor belt
so some wife will get full value from her 5-pound bag.

My grandmother washing used sheets of tin foil
to cover the ham in the oven and wrapping it
so we can savor those packets of love later in the week.

My grandmother putting her hand out
stilling my fidgeting in the church pew beside her then
gently touching my arm to take the sting from the rebuke.

My grandmother kneeling to plant black-faced pansies
in their fancy bonnets along the front walk
of the house my grandfather built.

My grandmother muttering under her breath
about the brambles
in the overgrown raspberry patch.

My grandmother tipping mason jars of tadpoles
back into the stream
when her grandchildren aren’t looking.

I loved my grandmother before she was a constellation
so I look for her in the kitchen and the garden and the church pew
and the mirror of my child.