Enjoy Being Human

the star-money

an open field night clear & glittering
stars prismatic butterflies circle wrists

kiss shirtless skin then thunder stars
clatter across barren earth extraterrestrial coins

irresistibly shiny stow them in your mouth
   as many as you can acid rain bile

drips from your jaw your lips
   disintegrating in starlight your throat full

of unimaginable riches choking

the three snake-leaves

i’m lying on the floor
of my apartment
watching the pear tree
outside the window
when a thin red snake
ribbons out from my
baseboard heater
& i’m like holy shit & smash it
with the base of a lamp
but it breathes itself whole again
so i acquiesce & lie back down
watching as it wraps itself
around moldy basil
in a cracked terracotta pot

& as it swirls up each stalk
the plant comes back to life
the pot heals itself
& i’m like whoa
am i high or
the snake picks the three lushest leaves
& holds them in its mouth
as it glissades over my breasts
gently eroding mammary & areola
fluttering & slicing
& reconstructing
finally stitching two leaves
underneath my flattened chest

& i’m like what
the snake twists around
my swelling clit
the third leaf flickering
against my labia
then folded inside me
& i breathe like
never before
all at once
resurrected

diptych in which i can’t speak

i.
there’s a misconception that when someone is nonverbal they’re basically brain-dead or have nothing to say when really it’s the opposite like sitting here on this khaki couch i have too much too many thoughts happening so fast like this maroon velvet pillow bunched uncomfortably under my leg but i’m too awkward to move so i distract myself by tracing a scar on my hand with a paperclip & i’m so used to censoring myself in normal conversation it’s automatic (workplace drama yes stripsearch flashback no ) even though i’m supposed to be able to talk about anything here but my throat is aching & every muscle flexes involuntarily & my breath is shallow & i think about how when i was a kid no i was scared that my whole family would be murdered & i would pull my blanket over my head & practice avoiding the murderer no by pretending to already be dead by holding my breath as long as possible or breathing slow & sideways instead of up & down & no i can’t talk about this death game no how i’ve played it too many times now no how it’s really a game of survival & how i no i honestly can’t speak which makes me feel like even more of a failure like i can’t even talk to the person i’m literally paying to talk to & i hear a bus hiss outside at the stoplight & i think about what i could’ve done instead with this $25 with the hour and a half i’m using to get here & back home & every object in the office feels oppressive so rounded so colorful & bright the books the blinds the pride flag in the pen cup the smattering of fidget toys on the table like bolted-down wooden bead mazes in a doctor’s waiting room that joyful distraction before being weighed & pricked & exposed & there’s cheering & whistling from the soccer field across the street & i fold the damp tissue i’m holding into a rectangle & throw it away there’s a crinkly noise & i’m in a former therapist’s office on that denim couch no & his back is facing me & i’m telling him about a person who i loved no & he tells me to keep talking don’t stop & he grunts & i hear spattering onto the crumpled paper in his desk trash can & he tells me to get out & no no i can’t say any of this & i can’t leave but i can look at the clock & pick at my cuticles until our session is over or there’s nothing left

ii.
sometimes i want a cigarette so bad
but you can’t smoke when you’re on t

& my heart’s about to explode all the time anyway
but if i’m so suicidal then why do i care either way

i’m loitering by a pear tree deciding
whether to take the train or bus

or get a ride & feel guilty about it & it’s hot
raining fat sporadic drops & there’s a ripe pear

on the ground & there are two large speckles
on its skin that look like eyes & i lift it by the stem

& the part covered by dirt smells fermented
it’s drenched with ants so i drop it & wipe the juice

on my pants & walk toward the cemetery
like maybe i’ll catch a bus from there

or maybe i’ll find an open grave
or maybe i’ll see a turkey vulture

that makes me want to keep living

diptych burned into tablets of ice
for John

i.
we’re riding the c line to brookline
& we’ve only met recently so it’s pleasant
& awkward & we talk about church

or no we talk about mothers
how yours wants you to find
a church here in boston & you

say offhand i mean i like lutherans
then vehemently deny you would ever
be one they're… nice? i don’t know

& thus you become John Who Likes Lutherans
(distinguishing you from Doggy Dreams John)
then John With the Frog Crown Poem & finally

John / a singular name like Madonna or Prince or Jesus

II.
this christmas i go to church for the first time
in years / a lutheran church / everyone around me
has blonde hair & eyes glacial blue / i feel many

of these staring but when i return the gaze:
embarrassment overcorrected by a glorious smile
& the pastor’s telling some bootstraps-y story

about the importance of family & my heart turns
inside out & my throat & my eyes involuntarily water
& i consider running out of there / just running

until i collapse & die in peace / dark blob purpling
on a white field / fallen celestial anomaly / but then rach
nestles her head into my shoulder & the service ends

with "silent night" / on the ceiling in the projected stars
i see you / now in michigan / albino moose creeping toward
the middle of a frozen lake / you bow to melt the snow

with your velvet nostrils / making eye contact with a sunfish
partially trapped in the surface ice / when it’s cold they swim
to deeper water / this one did not / you want to smash through

& save it so you raise your cloven hoof but instead
press it to the ice like lips to a silver chalice / the fish
is dead already / i look down at the candle in my hand

& see you again / resplendent in the flame & smoke