two poems, first published in Poetry Review
A bird swallowed by a cone-like evergreen.
Kids walking out of dark bamboo.
Inside, the father’s voice
sounding nothing like my father.
A phone rings. Zafara
leaps out of the computer
and asks to be fed:
“It’s been over two years.
I’m dying, I’m dying.”
Let me be a snowglobe turned inside-out,
arms dangling into my sleeves,
breath so hot it makes me come.
“So what,” I say, “you’ll never die.”
I’m Sorry, Dave
A person in a chair tells me about her trauma, thinks
she isn’t sincere enough, rips her face off by the hair.
Beneath, Hal from Malcolm in the Middle vents about Lois
then jags his fingers in his mouth
and tears off his face. The new head’s smaller and so on, defacing
itself to be sincerer,
defacing itself to be sincerer, until my final head is the size
of a pea on such wide shoulders.