Four Poems

There is no noise

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I hold the ocean in my belly—between your legs in the tub
something sticks between us—the jammed knob of an old
clock radio—winter is an open mouth—I am not fond of
I am harpoon—I am whale—a beautiful departure—in the
heat I grow skinny—pale—hang—between your thighs
stringy roots of grass—once—I left—knew I would always
leave—again and again—once—I thought we’d go to
Buenas Aires—now—the bath cups the base of my breasts
there is no noise

I dream of infidelity again

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the next day I slice mozzarella and tomatoes—
juices wick into the bamboo board—the wood
is full and soft—they run together—push over
the rim onto counter—too much of everything

I eat—tell myself—food is the idea—full—solid
lead in the bare bottom of the stomach—to take
space—to fill again

What you missed

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once—you were sleeping—I made you
a bear trap—lashed two pieces of string to
the corners of your jaw—I made believe
I was jumping rope—that I was pigtails
loose in a breeze—caramel covered apples
the good old days—I laughed—you woke up
later—you asked me what you’d missed

Jetsam

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the body finally settled its weight—on the shore
everyone blamed the tide

waterlogged skull pressed into the wet sand
pinned arms of kelp—stretched-out
tails on a kite

no one turned it over—weeks
soaking—a face not its own

the service over the day after the report
how the surf pushed forward on both sides
sucked back

no one asked what to do next—they blamed
the tide—not for taking it out—for bringing it back