I come to you dripping from head to foot / from every pore, you’re covered with blood and dirt: / the shape togetherness was taken by / dispossession and constraint / the shape our togetherness took / not exactly our decision / not exactly not / I come to you in the warehouse after work / over lunch I suck you off at a public park / against a backdrop of container ships / you drip from head to foot with bankruptcy / from every pore with debt, I’m covered with / food stamps, worker’s comp / faced away from you / dripping with the blood of countless / free applications for student aid / filled out as I instructed / covered with the breath of board / members and executive directors / you enter dripping with nonprofit diversity / and inclusion, I drool onto the cover / its fabric of deans and department chairs / letters of appointment kept and broken / dripping from column to column / from every pore with demographic data / I feel your presence in the joint account / your expenditures and wages / I touch them

what did she tell me about Madame George? / driving home to California, hers not mine yet / probably it is about drugs. I still don’t know anything / except how to feel in the car inarticulate / moaning along. we gave the old man pepto / when he got carsick. what were we thinking? / he was just a kitten then for real / we were coming from Spokane / a place so white it felt satanic. she was not. / it was very bad there for her / in ways I cannot fully account for, her best friend / first love dead less than a year before we met / I was running away from home / out of Colorado into the Presbyterian college / where we spent a lot of time in a closet-sized single / dorm room watching Star Trek. outside it was the 90s. / when we reached her grandmother’s house it was late / or it was early, and jasmine. I stepped on a snail in the half dark. / I wanted this to have that same smell / cool night air up against the bathroom door / the hallway lights begin to dim / that’s when you fall / you’re in the front room, touching him

riding around on a blow up dolphin / in the pool with my friends / you’re not here but it feels like you are / extruding all these pieces in the water / I remember how pretty Bonnie was / dancing in a long skirt, how she squirted breast milk / over the van, the time she was superwoman / for Halloween even though I was never there / she careened through the photo of you and Mark / last weekend I caught it. your ex-wife, your brother, your / family. sometimes it’s still a little weird. sometimes I forget / we’re not going to have kids. these aren’t exactly / sonnets. I tried, but they didn’t turn. / you didn’t go to college or grow up with money / but in a suit you pass for a businessman / walking up Durant to rehearsal some Cal students / drove by in a truck. fuck you faggot suck my dick. / in a photograph on the boat your family took / from Scotland to Vancouver, you and your brothers / wear red wellies and pajamas. three small santas / some kind of pageant. after they moved everyone to California / you found your parents in bed new years day morning / with friends and the head of a suckling pig / which is to say your dad made some money in the 70s / but spent it all on clothes and Le Central / where he barely touched the food. smoked / endless cigarettes, drank endless brandies. / when your boss sexually harassed you / nobody including us knew what to do / when a rich white married gay guy with a lot of power / harasses a not rich white married bisexual guy / with a medium amount of power / the co-pay for an appointment I pushed you to / make this morning came to $360 after all the tests / because nonprofit insurance sucks so bad / you said you’re taking yourself out to lunch / you’re looking up the thing it could be / the thing you asked me please not to look up / I’m writing this in my office at work / because you’re home sick. I knew / if I worked there I’d take care of you instead. / maybe you also meet your own needs / by meeting the needs of others. I think so. / that I do may or may not mean anything / about how far we haven’t come. I am not / every woman. every woman is not in me.

on the scooter model People 150 / your back looks like a boy’s / I follow you home from the repair shop / I carry my mother’s fear of motorcycles / but not her fear of cancer / my father carried a fear of the heart attack / that killed his father but in the end / a weird form of cancer killed him / and two of his seven siblings / ragged on a country road / in a photo from the childhood / he worked hard to get away from / I like that you are slight / strong jawline big hands / I like the top of your head / the way it smells / the fur that starts on your chest / has gotten thicker with age / you’re an otter / a bear / both / neither / some things that really kill me include / you got into the WNBA first / you’re all about the squad game not the star / when we fought most recently about working from home / you said three things: open the window sometimes / can you scrape the old man’s plate once in a while / I forget the other one / you’re ok with me calling the boxer briefs / your panties. when I went to the store for frozen pizza / it felt weird because you do all the shopping. / at SeaWorld you sat with Avery and Colette / and cried or tried not to cry in front of them. / it hurts to be around the way adults are / always putting their hands in the shape of / here is the church, here is the steeple / open the doors, see all the people / we don’t own them, so we have no say / in the shape language takes around them