Two Poems

Bottle Necks

Leslie liked to drink bottled beer,
gripping the necks a little too hard.
She liked to wait until they
worked up a little sweat,
drinking them at room temperature.

Leslie drank a swig of beer,
then poked her finger into his ribcage.
It came away sticky, reddish
threads connecting Leslie to the man.

Leslie’s fingernails were always
rimmed in black, silhouettes of
the white quarter moons at the tips.

Leslie crouched over the man,
counting his bones.
One, two, three, four, five.
She removed his insides
with an ice cream scooper,
dropping his organs into metal salad bowls
six, seven, eight, nine, ten.

Earthquake Preparedness

Little fibers break inside my calves.
That is how I know I’m alive
when I’m climbing up the hill
making all the wooshing noises
in my chest and mouth.

A couple in jogging shorts
turns and stares.
They can hear the popping in my calves
and they know that I’m alive.

Denim circle skirts are
tomorrow’s jogging shorts
like yesterday’s sequined tube top was
today’s hi vis vest.

I stole it
from the earthquake preparedness closet at work,
and this helmet and this bicycle.
The closet is significantly less prepared now.

Someone at work has been stealing all the coffee.
The head of HR sent out her accusations today.

No one has noticed our depleted rations
of baked beans, tinned spaghetti,
the dwindling four liter bottles of water.
No one notices things like that
in the middle of a crisis situation.

‘