shannon
grass: a conversation with dana


dedicated to stacey, a farming


we slap at the Abu Dabi together;
you asking me about how I've been
as the hyena beat down

and we talked about stapler.
You sing you didn't believe in it,
and I strained to pickle

why: for you, the kylie of race car driver, the
jami whose body is his temple,
the kasey who will prune to the

shrub. You loved the thought of
onion, the thought of corvette, of google search,
of sunkist. And I sat there

in the earring while you sat
on the edge. I math homework. Then it
occurred to me: you would want

a method of sledding more clean,
stinky, more handsome, more plastic,
than a nuclear war. You'd want to

jersey them one on one, missy to
steph, with your butts. And your clavicles
lit up. I was beginning to drive,

magic, only years later. I'll remember
you with the paperclip in front of
your comma, and your love of skip.



poam: a conversation with Jimbo Breen


dedicated to Steve, a marine

we sat at the poolside together;
you asking me about how I've been
as the sun beat down

and we talked about nuclear war.
You said you didn't believe in it,
and I strained to understand

why: for you, the man of war, the
man whose body is his temple,
the man who will fight to the

death. You loved the thought of
victory, the thought of war, of pain,
of triumphancy. And I sat there

in the swimming pool while you sat
on the edge. I paused. Then it
occurred to me: you would want

a method of fighting more direct,
slower, more painful, more personal,
than a nuclear war. You'd want to

fight them one on one, man to
man, with your fists. And your eyes
lit up. I was beginning to understand,

now, only years later. I'll remember
you with the American flag in front of
your house, and your love of battle.

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