Host
Noticing something different
than the rest, dark spot on my bikini line,
I killed the shower
to get a good look, tried to brush it off,
but it was stuck. Rooted. So this is what
“summering” does. WARNING
signs had followed us all weekend: High Tick Area.
I spent a lot of time worrying
and it worked. I hope she
forced her way in
while I was peak sun
at the Hither Woods beach
reading Montauk Life Magazine:
“Traditional charmer.” “Showstopper.”
“Sunset stunner with room for a Bentley.” I received
a stone there, a token of love.
It looked like a peach pit, opaque
at first, but when it dried I could see layers,
like nerves and muscle
in clean breast tissue.
Or did she bite me at dusk
as I sipped the Finger Lakes
Riesling that tasted like bone?
Not bone-dry; just bone.
We watched a family of deer
walk the shore
away from us, went home,
peeled off each other’s clothes.
The longest day of the year
made even longer for her
when I pulled her out
with tweezers, dropped her in a jar.
What does it mean that I called her a bitch?
That I called her “she” before Google told me
that’s what the white spot on her back meant?
I resumed comfort through the evening,
knowing she was trapped
in the jar, full of my blood.
I wasn’t mad at her,
just disappointed. I found myself
stopping by to ask why she’d done it,
imagined her saying, I had to eat.
Her voice sounded like mine.
That night I dreamt my stomach
was protruding with life, a full term of it,
veins blue-green tubes pumping,
becoming planet Earth.
I was hosting an Earth-themed party.
I fed my guests grapes from my mouth,
offered my bed. Balloons floated to the ceiling.
When I woke, she was gone,
all that was left were a few dark specks in the jar.
I thought to smudge her ash on my forehead
but didn’t, just stood there
in the living room
looking around at all I’ve collected —
taking inventory
of what’s gotten in
without invitation
and what I won’t let leave.
* * * * *
Vacation Dinner
For a minute now he’s been looking
at the same Instagram model
on his phone. I see her
in the window’s reflection,
looking back at him, unmoving.
Twenty-something, who knows
with these magic filters, heart-shaped
face framed by lavender hair,
big empty eyes. You don’t have to see
the rest of her body to imagine
what she could be doing with it.
He gazes down, the screen’s blue light
reaching for his face like cold hands
as he tries to hide a grin.
His battery life is critically low.
I have something like power
in his not knowing I can see,
though I’d rather he knew
as if he holds her
angled toward the glass
for me. I’d almost like it.
The tea candle flickers
as our drinks arrive.
The server reminds us
of our choices, tells an unsolicited story
about the chairs we’re sitting on,
how the wood was reclaimed
after a hurricane named Patricia
dropped a tree right through the roof.
We look at each other.
* * * * *
Yoga Revolution
It’s taken me ninety days
to get to day twenty-one
in the 30 Day Yoga Revolution.
No yoga robots
my internet yogi says
as I invert to downward dog.
A few sun salutations
then we move into tree:
heel to inner thigh, eyes
on a black speck on the wall.
A car starts next door.
I was nine and sitting in our Honda
when suddenly I remembered
years earlier feeling afraid
and a man telling me
to not be.
I left my body in the car
and hovered above our house,
my sister’s bike toy-like
on its side in the grass.
I lose my balance
when the teen girl next door
comes running outside.
She stops at the car
to yell at her mother.
Soon they’re both yelling,
bodies gesturing in place of words
that can’t be said, faces
contorted in anguish.
They fight hard, in a way
I’d always wanted.
The fight persists
beyond cooldown,
corpse pose, and the end credits.
/ / /
We are grateful to Milkweed Editions for permission to show these three poems from Human Resources, published by the press on June 14, 2022. You may acquire a copy from Bookshop.org by clicking here …