They said a transformer blew,

all sparks and shrapnel raining down

around the neighborhood, live wires

on the ground, hissing like snakes.

Last night, marriage was proposed.

I awoke to find my lips had formed

a yes below the no. All those children

I told you I never wanted, dancing

in my dreams like ghosts.

It is stained glass and broken porcelain,

here, where the sky smells only of

cedar and mildew. It rains and rains,

trees cracking and crashing in the wind.

Wind like a hushed whisper,

like the weather's keeping secrets,

and despite the week of sweaty

backs-of-knees and sunburnt noses,

this morning I shiver

with the houseplants

beside the open window.

1.

I haven't shaved my legs in three weeks. A week ago, I was floating by on general laziness, but by now, it's officially A Statement, whether I like it or not. In all reality, that statement is, "I no longer need to adhere to mainstream beauty standards." But then again, I suppose that that's what all non-leg-shaving statements boil down to, really.

2.

I tried to write a poem a few weeks ago, and it morphed into the same nonsense that this is morphing into. A Statement. In the biz, we call something like this an "Advertorial." An advertisement disguised as an editorial. And on nights where I can't sleep and I'm not half as tortured as Don Draper but I'm drinking like him, and I want to write a poem, the only thing that comes out anymore is A Statement. The kinda thing you write when you're looking for attention or admiration or something. Applause, maybe. An advertisement for yourself. And you hope someone's buying.

3.

I live in the woods. I ride my bicycle into town, my leg hairs floating in the wind. I get buzzed by rednecks, in ridiculously large trucks, screaming obscenities. Or maybe they're just trying to hit on me. They can't see the leg hair from here.

The failed sweetness of an apple

gone to vinegar,

fruit flies alighting, lightly,

too small, individually,

to carry much weight.

But soon enough, they swarm.

1

Winter, like a head cold, is waning

beneath the DayQuil and chamomile.

The feeling like we might die, passing

with the clouds over the coast.

A raw season of filth and rain--mud

splattered onto your ankles and shins--

still, we wake before the sun.

2

Already, the daffodils sprout. Soon,

the figs will erupt and heavy, branches

stretching to the ground, the yard

drying and greening and drying again.

Perhaps I'll plant tomatoes. Perhaps

rosemary. The canal will wake, glitter

poured from dock to dock--the violinist

dancing on his houseboat. Soon.

3

Cheers to the stars. Cheers to the moon.

Champagne-tipsied, I'd kiss that beautiful man,

with fireworks and sea-salt on my tongue.

1.

We went on adventures,

scanned the sky for planets

and satellites, spent all our money

on ballgames and bourbon, ran too fast

too far and fell, drunk on endorphins,

into the lake after midnight.

2.

Let's play this game again.

Come with me to steal

the neighbors' flowers

in fat bouquets that smell

exactly like your

grandmother's backyard:

gardenia and hyacinth,

handfuls overflowing, tied

together with grapevine.

3.

Reeking of roses--dirt buried

in each wrinkle of skin, tip

of finger to bend of wrist--

tshirt sticking to my spine

from the weather, from the

high noon summer ride

to your house:

I stand in your living room

like it's years ago. Yesterday.

We remove each other's socks,

run barefoot into the front yard.

The neighbors' sprinklers go on

right about now.

High school nights, it seems.

Exhibit A:

We run wild and quiet,

kicking sand up behind us.

The park closed three hours ago,

but we break this rule like we're

passing notes in class.

Hushed giggles:

we're fourteen again,

abandoning shoes and shorts

on the beach, playing chicken

with the weather--it's still

too cold for any sane adult person,

but I double-dog-dared her,

so here we are.

Quiet, until we're waist-deep,

then a shriek.

B:

Warm beers in hand, we float,

look at the sky, gossip. Talk

about boys and broken hearts.

We've spent a lifetime

in these waters, pacts made

over stale Rainiers and under

these stars, burning brighter

the further from land we go.

C:

Imagination run wild, the lake

is still, flowing around us like silk:

a fish tail, a ball gown. The mansions,

ghostly, shroud us on all sides,

and we imagine we're rich.

Cinderella mermaids

smoking a bowl in the garden

while the others dance inside.

Princes are such a bore.

She said Bill Gates

once paid her

ten thousand dollars

for party favors,

and I ooh and ahh,

imagining what it would be like.

Extravagance. Plenty.

D:

Bliss--

sunburnt, the smell of aloe,

mother's hands soothing

fragile skin. Falling asleep

with the ocean rushing

within your calves.