32oz. mason jar

i didn’t see it happen,

only heard the crash,

only saw,

walking up the driveway,

your rage sparkling like shattered glass

in the morning air,

your blood red anger

sharp in the dappled sunlight.



i got the keys and drove you to the E.R. where

they stitched up your hand,

good as new.

there’s too much, too much, too much, love.

for a couple hundred bucks

we agreed to play house that fall—

in truth, it was the house of my dreams;

to the clash of age of adz

i touched the walls and pinched myself,


well i have known you, for just a little while,

but i feel i’ve known you, i feel i’ve seen you,

since the earth was split in fives.


twenty minutes into “impossible soul” and

i taste the first corn chowder and biscuits i

made from scratch,

the feel of those wooden bowls as I scrubbed them in the slate farmhouse sink as

you restarted the album from the beginning.

i feel the uneven pages of that copy of the poisonwood bible

i stole when they came back from vacation early

and i wasn’t quite finished.

i stuffed it in their mailbox months later with an apology

scrawled on the back of a receipt.


it’s taken six years for me to once again be able to

make it all the way through to the last lines:

i gotta tell you boy, we made such a mess

boy, we made such a mess

boy, we made such a mess together


sad, true

sometimes when i talk you

can’t be bothered to look up from your screen;

i want to draw an orange check on your paper, too.


it feels a little like trying to stop the inevitable;

i just keep thinking about shteyngart’s lament,

super sad,