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The Bodyexpand_moreI wanted my love to be everywhere, then love began to bite through me.
The poem I can’t yet write saves itself for when it can’t be avoided.
My lust works like the tides pulling in reverse, controlled by a simple ballast.
For the president’s arrival they shot two dogs making love on the tarmac.
But we do despise beauty. We connect it with softness and immortality.
I know which home takes the turning, which mind washes in hot water.
I awakened on my belly—my back a raw field from nape to heels.
I found Lowell’s gun a long time ago. He’s not a genius at hiding things.
The urge to be a tiny bird upon a tiny limb, maybe a bridled titmouse.
Now he chuckles with the sea, stitched within its timeless jive.
“I don’t care how tired we are. I’m not not having sex on my wedding night.”
It seemed to her that they only ever touched each other in transient, sudden ways.
How do you beat a man who refuses to rise from a puddle of his own blood.
Everyone has something lodged and jittering inside them.
The first murder had been a half dozen years ago in a warmer city.
References to and portrayals of hypocrisy, moral sloth, venery.
Who needs driftwood when I can bury myself in your loamy soil.
My love swims you, your shoulders like hard sails under the green curls.
He knew what those friends were worth: he knew the girls too.
She wears her nakedness like it has been woven from air.
Our brains interpolate from surrounding images, fooling us.
Not all his children love themselves. Look at little Adrienne.
In that world I was a fish too eager to enter the nets; here, I’m a river.
A car curved left, leapt the curb, and came at us like the line of a bullet.
My brother could Wichita wheelbarrow like I never could.
You can stand on the edge and tremble with fear or risk your life.
insomniacs gesturing in a cave of neon light the narrative of their lives
Rebecca Lehmann
My “lonelymaking.” Also known as my horrible secret, continent-wide.
If life is an open vein, what’s brave about a sleeve-heart, sweetheart?
