Light and dark, playing off each other.
Some days the dark is like the bottom
of a well, sunk down so deep there is
no way back up. 

Political assassinations. Machines
of war parading down our streets.
Bombs. Missiles. Countries intent 
on beating each other up. 

Sometimes the dark is the calm of night,
light of stars and fireflies flickering.
The marching feet, tens of thousands
saying No. The beleaguered hearts

that still care for, feed, house the others
the darkness fears. The neighbor who mows
an elder’s lawn. The child who defends
the weird kid from the bullies.

The church that still helps refugees
find homes. The last government
employees still trying to protect us
from pollution, disease, storms. 

You wore my “no” down

into a “yes.”

And now I can’t forgive either of us.

i want to say something deep about how your mouth is the organ of learning and how you won’t be content until all knowledge has dammed up your gullet,
but every bite you bite hurts so damn much
(not to mention you hurtle like a torpedoed bullet into my bruising legs,
even hewed your claws scratch welts to complement the flash of chewed up flesh that decorates my arms,
your mother weeping ‘no!’ and ‘ow!!’ and ‘how!!!’ shakes me from every sleep,
and not to be crass but you have an asshole shaped like a cracked walnut rarely covered by your whacking tail.
oh and the glaze of piss you’ve blanketed the world in kind of skeeves me out)
baby i can’t fill your cup if you keep spilling mine

IN THIS YEAR OF DEAD THINGS
THIS IS WHAT YOU MUST KNOW:
ONE. YOU WILL NEVER FORGET THE SMELL.
TWO. DOUBLE BAGS. TRIPLE BAGS. 
THREE. YOU WILL NEVER KNOW EXACTLY WHAT HAPPENED.
FOUR. YOU WILL GET USED TO IT. 

I found you there, hiding but not hidden. Behind my
rear tire. You dragged yourself there and rested— it took
all you had. It didn’t matter. 

I found you there, stiff and bloody. You were so much
larger than I thought. The flies knew you just as well. 
I struggled to pick you up but I did not drop you.

Will they find me here? In this year of dead things,
when will it be my turn? I will bleed into soup
and birth maggots like breathing. I see it in my
dreams. There will come a day when I blink and
find I cannot open my eyes again.

on the inlays

Today, I visualized the cord that binds us 
Flimsy, brittle, tattered thing
My being sacrificed into weaving it stronger 
Bits of my flesh strewn into the patchwork quilt 
I found it always needed more

You are no longer my parasite 
Choosing when to drain me dry 
Insidiously feeding
Refusing to yield yourself 

I release you 

You’re just sitting there, each particle
lighter than a hummingbird feather,
but collectively, you’re at least seven,
maybe eight pounds, not including the urn.
You aren’t much to carry, yet we can’t bear
to measure what remains of you—memories
hazy as motes of dusted sunlight—without
the weight of your soul.