Two honeyed eyes that flash mahogany,
The brisk December wind against her coat
Which ripples—glossy, sleek: the blackest sea 
That ever did pull down a wayward boat. 
When I’m away, does she remember me? 
I feel her footfalls padding, hushed and low,
All searching eyes and agile limbs—but she
Will never understand why I must go.
When I return, she’ll yelp in frantic greeting,
All semblance of good manners briefly shed,
She’ll run me to the ground, her tail a-beating;
In tow, her frisbee—dangling by a thread.
‘Til then, I must subsist on FaceTime calls,
And send her twenty thousand tennis balls.

You driving? –  Sure; 
Australian indie, volume
40; red bag in the back-
seat; Where are my 
sunglasses; 19:26 ETA, 
40.9 miles; far left lane; 
congested beltway; Let's 
call home; stubborn asphalt 
into country roads; travel mug;
Have you heard this band 
before; one-lane bridge; rich 
green foliage; Why on earth 
would they name it Balls 
Hill Road; farmers market 
roundabout; beer garden; 
visor-mirror makeup; Turn 
around, it’s a lemonade stand; 
rule number one, people don’t 
change; Diet Coke; screening 
calls; Do you remember the 
sleet on the way to Chicago; 
obscure halls of fame; 
Exit 19; garage reverse-
maneuver – First try!

A duvet of sand stretches:
it crinkles where the 
light catches. Sun-bleached 
sea stones in the heart 
of my palm. The door 
frame, embedded 
in a mouthless cliff. 

It can’t be green-grass
lambs, their bodies folded 
in like old dogs. Just sea-foam: 
gutless, spelling froth.
My sun-prayer, answered
in sweat-syllables. But if I undress 
the horizon, I might yet lose 
what makes me gentle. 

When I asked, the wind-lorn 
ship-maker said Two miles
from land, you can start 
to smell it. And I’ve been closing 
in for so long. Ears pricked, eyes 
shut; nose to the wind. Still,
nothing. Sea air to my tongue. 
Salt-wet sentences. 

Drag the furniture outside 
in the morning. In the evening 
drag it back in. Spend so much time 
with a broom in your hand 
that you begin to fantasize about 
inventing self-sweeping floors. 
When there is downtime, fold boxes. 
Learn how to pretend 
like you’ve been folding boxes.
When making lemonade, ask 
Magali to taste it. She will know 
if it’s too sour. Try not to lock 
your car keys inside the building 
when you’re closing up 
on the 4th of July. (You will not 
get them back until the next morning. 
Plan accordingly.) When a ticket 
prints at exactly 1:11:11pm, fish it 
out of the trash. Keep it in your phone 
case. Try to laminate it. Fail. Keep 
the remnants in your phone case 
until the timestamp is unreadable.
Ponder the way dulce de leche feels 
in the piping bag. When your boyfriend 
comes to visit, sneak him an apple 
danish. Get told off. Deposit 
your checks as soon as you get 
to your car. Keep a pen 
in the center console for this purpose.
Forget to take off your apron 
until you get to your car. Throw 
it in the backseat. Throw it in the trunk. 

Forget about it. Go to school 
2,000 miles away and 
bring your car with you. Dig around 
in the trunk. Notice the apron, 
still inside. At the very back. 
Leave it there. 

On a brown paper bag, draw 
your manager as a chocolate chip 
danish. Show him. 
Avoid interacting with middle-aged customers who request 
a kiss on the cheek. If you panic
and grant the request, avoid giving 
said customers your phone 
number. When icing cheese 
danishes, drizzle in a wave pattern. 
For schneckes, criss-cross. 
No one knows what a tuxedo mocha is.
If no one is looking, put the 
piping bag in the microwave 
first. Warm icing comes 
out much cleaner. Stay 
in touch with your favorite 
regulars. Meet for coffee when 
you’re back home. Some
other café. Not yours. Ask how
their retirement is going. 

All I know is a door into the dark. 
And another. And another. 
When the bandits rode in, 
they rifled through my things:
Wire cuttings, worthless as gravel. 
I kept a box of early springtime
in the back cupboard. They
gutted that, too—but, seeing 
only a crisp-folded set of flour-sack 
sheets, they re-holstered. Rode on. 


Half-breaths, all the air half-
drunk in: I never pitch a tent
in the same place twice. 
It’s my hand, plunging into the 
grit of the meal-bin. It’s the 
cross-stitched leather of the wheel 
choked in the crook of my fingers. 
Snug as a gun, I tell myself: 
Snug as a gun. 

When I return, it’s to the press 
of forest air against my cheek: 
fevered—a sultry summer with 
its jaw unhinged. 
(The trees know the solstice better 
than I. They waste no time.)
A deciduous exhale, a biting edge; 
sodden leaves plaster the earth. 
When it comes, the glacial night 
unfurls, sudden and raw; 
The snake creeps in under my door. 
All I can do is coax it out, 
gently wish it well—
the promise of springtime 
a nectar on my lips.

The cure for a sore throat
lies in the pauses between
keystrokes; deft, measured
—soothingly off-beat.

Honey and lemon in citrus
black tea, a static hum in
the air. A breath. A noxious breeze.
Soon, the window-view will


fade and the skies will sour
into shade again. (Every day 
the world gets overripe and
falls off the tree. Every night

a new one grows in its place
and we pretend not to
notice.) Every sip of 
honey lemon tea is a cruel

reminder of the malady it 
has yet to soothe. But of 
course it is more about 
the waiting than the time.