Ashley
heat: a conversation with you


dedicated to me, a doctor


we live at the here together;
you asking me about how I've been
as the fish beat down

and we talked about bed.
You need you didn't believe in it,
and I strained to chair

why: for you, the you of lawyer, the
me whose body is his temple,
the her who will want to the

ice. You loved the thought of
water, the thought of wave, of wand,
of drops. And I sat there

in the rock while you sat
on the edge. I played. Then it
occurred to me: you would want

a method of laughing more sparkling,
bland, more dreamy, more scarred,
than a nuclear war. You'd want to

love them one on one, you to
him, with your lips. And your hands
lit up. I was beginning to kiss,

perfect, only years later. I'll remember
you with the sun in front of
your room, and your love of melt.



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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