Evolution

Hooting into lunar dandruff
coagulated, mid-sky
I was an owl
the night I drove through clouds

Wearing a suit jacket
on top of his woolen petticoat
He was a wolf
the day I drove through 1855

Hey, he said, his tail keeping company with his knees.
April dollars won't buy March bread.
What's a girl like you doing with empty pockets?
Get yourself
babies for each breast
a welcome mat
flat and heavy
like you stomach mustn't stay
like your heart can only be

I don't argue
get your grandma
a loaf of bread
Only tell him 'bout the time

in my weathered Honda civic
I followed a sign on a whim and
spun down a side street
into dark gravel
swerving to spare the rabbits
blindly chewing on rocks
the night I drove through clouds
I got gloriously lost
five wheels spinning mud into margarine

I tell him
My heart isn't heavy.

I tell him
My heart sings on empty,

a one woman band,
bells fog stomach and car horns
swelling
with the breath of black swans
and tarmac
and dry red leaves

and I tip my hat

Things That End

Things that end:

hiccups (usually).
heartbeats, heatstroke, senate
elections. Bus route 7 in Saigon,
the road less traveled, ink pens,
fantasy, flexibility, being on fire.
Constipation (usually).

The Roman Empire, dinner yesterday,
contact with my 8th grade
science teacher. The sky
the way our eyes can see it.
Haircuts. Spelling bees. Cricket matches.
The sky the way our eyes cannot.

Ceilings, balconies and being
tucked in. Newsweek subscriptions,
egg whites only, teeth, law
and order, dry sponge, wet clay.

and Christmas mornings
my Christmas mornings
Hamlet's life, Pete's dragon,
all blood and breasts and
berlin walls.