Ode to the Last

The first burst with glory

The second leapt of real

And there it is:

A book made up of a single, two-sided page.

Over too soon:

A tour of a railroad apartment

The swell of the first chord and the sting of the last strum

Quite a fine pairing of longing and gratitude

that this body made room

made time, made two

that this heart parcels attention

to the short shortness of the starts and the long longness of the lives

Really, generating is spurred by generousness

And where the creating ends, the giving grows

says the one facing down the last

underlining, annotating how and why

All to honor the way it moves us

on.

Postpartum Bodies in Pajamas

A black silk-poly blend with white piping knows the real story of what lies beneath it

Breasts that spread and tip towards the cliff of ribs

like waffle batter

finding a shape to settle into

Upper abdominals, now estranged and pouting

slumped into rearranged cushions and unresponsive to reason

Belly button renamed to cord basin

to rightfully align with its original purpose

and subsequent year-long stretch

from O to n

Lower abdominals with ripples, small and many

from a parade of boat wakes that made their way to shore

unapologetically disturbing its stillness

and unapologetically signaling its glory

An honor almost as high as seven straight hours of sleep.

I Didn’t Know You’d Take Me At My Word

People slam my first name and last name together.

Always have.

It’s strong they say.

The bones of a tower.

Yours averts friction, welcoming whistling vowels and leaving my mouth awaiting a kiss.

Like the one we shared at the end of the island where our tears baked in the sand .

Where I said there is love here and led you to believe that I wanted no more .

That I was too full of fluke and adoration and I liked my name anyway.