Look at the asp on that woman!
It’s a collection now. Three shelves worth.
I remember most of them when they were alive.
In my more maudlin moments
I picture myself as a young
It isn’t exactly autumn.
I have this picture of you — arid shrubs,
Dolan House, a wicked sawmill
that strums moisture between my legs.
it’s deafening. not even the thoughts in your mind can drown out its omniscient throbbing. so stale. painfully stubborn. you pray for a pindrop to take away its power, its vicegrip on the world around you. alas. a savior. a hero. a rustling tree.
Why is it we’ll put ourselves through
Love without sex?
The virtue of humanity has
existed forever, yet we allow
new rules to govern.
A boat with two oars
away from the dock
where it used to moor.
A poem by Cody Boyko
tomorrow is my 18th birthday, but i will not hear from you. and
it’s the permanence of that and of you that makes my world stable.
Every Thursday for thirty years,
at the same corner table,
they carefully stir sugar,
never a substitute,
into lukewarm tea.
I don’t remember when it became February.
We don’t hold hands anymore,
I’m not the hero I once was
And you find your heroes now in high school hallways.
A few months before
my older son took his life
he called home and told his mom
I saw beauty
Woman of olives
You are the fragrance of all of Italy.
As I watch you move from shelf to shelf,
I think to myself that
our bodies are like books,