We’re begging the world/to remember our name,/but we barely remember it/ourselves.
That’s the kind of man I am: I don’t believe in any lyric “I.” I don’t have time for any mind games. The “I” is either you or the poem’s a fraud.
He set down my cup, showing me coffee trees,/ Corpus Christi costumes, the totora boats/ drying upward to the sky, the salt collectors/ in the Sacred Valley, sand.
“I’ll open a locker and there it’ll be—your head! ‘Thank God you found me!’ it’ll say. ‘I’ve been in here for days!’”
You point to the pheasant. She’s sad, too. You’re both sad together.
But all he wants to know, my gorgeous lover of words,/dirt, puddles, and the sky, is why I “broke” his fall at all
The members of my online poetry workshop gear up to discuss sexual assaults of yore
This is where, in the poem,/I say that I am descended/from these motherfuckers
A Ferret, a Stoat, and a Polecat//go into a bar. Wait, it isn’t that kind/of poem.
Is she a victim or a villainess?/ You remember only a storm of swords and flame, /a flash of the white of winter, /the blue of a dragon’s eye.