Last night, Glorianna,
you told me
you had never been touched
in that new way before.
I want you to know, dear,
that I haven’t told any of the fellows
and will not. Someday, if you’ll have me,
I aim to buy us a green house with
thick walls, strong locks
so we can have that same joy
in all the rooms
at once.

Relax.
The worst is all
ahead of you.

Stretch like pizza dough
to reach the edge
of the pan,

the new day
no longer new.
It’s dark by 4:00,

or at least, the sky
bruises with the hint
that it soon will be.

The sun can’t warm you
if you don’t wake up
in time. It has

other things to do, that
butterscotch hard candy
sharpening itself

on your tongue
because all you want
is to hold it there.

Even a pumpkin pie
can be an act of war,
such aggression that
no one can remain
seated for long.

Someone didn’t make the family recipe
or someone else did, or someone
bought a pie and spiked it with bourbon
(a pumpkin pie? who does that?)

We gather together to say we are thankful
(to whom, and for what?), or even
because November is coming to an end

and we have to get some
gray misery out of the way
before we lurch forward
to Christmas.

If Green Is Your Favorite Color

This leaf reminds me of you.
I hold it close on bleak days. Also,
I notice the neighbor’s garden hose.

If Blue Is Your Favorite Color

How the sky reminds me of you!
You and your blue eyes, if
you have blue eyes.

If Red Is Your Favorite Color

Stop telling me that you love me.
It’s so obvious, even the fire truck
knows, continues on its way.

If Yellow Is Your Favorite Color

This leaf reminds me of you.
I found it dead on the rug.
I slipped on it, almost fell.

If Gray Is Your Favorite Color

I snuggle into a cloud, soft
as a kitten. Both of us wonder
what’s wrong with you.

There’s gum on the wall,
and who knows how long it’s been here?
It’s under the example boxes of tiny detergents.
The actual boxes are behind glass—Tide,
All, Cheer. A roach runs lazy circles
around them, impressive name brands
though they are. I don’t fault the Laundromat
for having roaches. It seems inevitable
in this college town with southern weather,
the transience of us and the humidity,
our wet clothes. Pizza crusts. Gum.

But when you leave,
a world ends. Not the world
but a certain one—your accomplishments,
the friends you thought you had,

whatever you said in the back of a cab
or, later an Uber, years and years
of lunches in the shared fridge.

The shared air. The abstract carpet.
The cherry veneer paneling
of the conference room where
important things were said.

If you ever went back,
you couldn’t go back. Gone
before you were gone. Did you
believe what they said or didn’t say,
what you thought you heard?

That you would not be forgotten?
That it meant something, your work?
That you were ever a person?

The light flicks on; the cleaning woman
vacuums around the chair that holds
your laptop in a cubicle, with a Post-it.

You meant to give it back to a person,
but she wasn’t there. You had to go.
Tomorrow, your note will be removed,
your laptop cleaned, refreshed,

empty as a paper cup.

We were all wrong about you.
But have you never been wrong,
never had a single wrong thought
in your entire walking head?

Hello. Good gracious.
See? The letters written
on the face of the moon?
Read across or diagonally—
the meaning is the same.

A fish leaps somewhere,
is forgotten almost immediately.
The pool of water for the fish
is not under the moon, or
the moon is not out yet.

Why is the tree reaching for the window?
What could a tree want, inside this house?
Food? Warmth? Human flesh? Best
not let the tree in, not the least
little branch can come in,

steal these bones to wear.
Trees have bones.
Wear the branches, tree!
Leave this flesh alone.

We have several love problems
and chief among them is
that we’re wearing ugly pants,
both of us, but this is not
enough to have in common—
not anymore, not since the loss
of our business or even our baby.
I mean we literally lost our baby
and will spend all of seven days
looking for it on the Lido Deck
as it hides under a sombrero
because this cruise goes to
Acapulco, let’s say, or Mazatlan,
so the fiesta never ends, endless
as the search for our baby.
Oh, there it is! Just as the boat
pulls up to the scrofulous dock,
the unloading zone of smoked
glass where we return to our
lives, which once again include
this baby. There you are!
the baby says. I have met
another baby. Each night, we
looked at the stars, and each night,
we saw them more clearly.
The baby walks past us,
gets in a giant Checker cab
with the other baby. We are
left here in our pants, holding
huge, tan-colored suitcases,
large paper roses we bought
in the gift shop, on a break
from searching for our baby.
Isn’t that just the way?, we say,
and we laugh and laugh.
Someone else says something,
but we don’t care because
we weren’t in their story—
only this one. Only ours.  

Lucky the dachshund,
your family went home to Japan
years ago. They called for you
at your old house before they left,
so you would know to follow.

Long, low dog spirit across the ocean,
did you settle in their new house, too?

Lucky, where is my mother?
We drove across corn and clouds
to return to where she wasn’t.