Vegas

Jenna has just won big on red
and we chant like sticky-fisted
toddlers: “again, again,” until
it’s nothing but three shiny cents.
She’s broken and hushed
for a moment, but sadness dissolves
here, this place where you’re invited
to dance along to the ringing payouts,
the tongue trill of shuffled cards,
the promising hum of a rumored
and wandering good luck.

Raised from desert, the tired
relentless glow prevents a true sunset,
and instead, it’s the fat Elvis that offers, almost,
a love letter. His sweaty skin defined
by a bulging against tight white leather
seams stitched by thin fingers,
the fake diamonds of his belt threatening
to fall and, with nobody to chase their scatter,
glisten instead from the sewer.
Almost married in the endless chapel,
under garland beads of sweat and pulsing
alcohol, you can see the baby’s open face,
the twisted tears and held promise.

Maybe three million people cross
the street with us, the nearly newlyweds.
Their sacred hearts are finally open here.
Heavy cheeked faces rimming
with blue jean, true American excess
in front of everyone who will
never know them, no eyes
batted in disgust, just a tired knee acceptance.
A hand in hand shrugged okay.



My baby for real
So this is it: bloody palms
and toes in shag.
Kisses on the rough
underside of your jaw
where stubble begins, again.
You hold a lot of love in
your hair. I find myself
utterly unprepared
as I run my fingers
over your cheekbone,
touch the heart there.
I’ll let you reach all the
way down my throat,
dissolve in the acid of
my stomach. Even on
bad days I’ll hold you
like a seed in my teeth,
and when you look
anxious, I’ll pull you
all the way against
my chest and let you
touch my eardrums,
even when your fingers
are covered in glitter.



Main St
On Main Street, the sun
falls toward my stomach
like a head into hands.
Fatigued and having spent
so much time wrapped up,
at last, the day chooses
to unfurl.

In this dying light, there is a roaring
generosity. A slow-wrapped
gold that gives everything
another chance to be interesting.

I will miss this May blossom.
The soft wetness of an opening
Earth, the smell of flowers
growing toward you in tenderness,
and the squirming wiggle of a worm
across my palm.

Winter’s cracking dryness
is replaced by a soft damp, and the tired,
flagging devastation cast out
on the broken rock on my person
begins to soften.

It is true that even as children
we had a crawling meanness
in ourselves. And yes, it still fights
to rear its head, barks
with those broken dog teeth.

But slowly, everything in my periphery
begins to buzz and shimmer.
It chants at me: believe it is still early
in your day— believe that there is still
a boundless love to be felt. Bend toward
the light in praise and keep faith
in your fantasy. This is all for you.

At last, the thaw is gathered. Breaks
the shiver and bursts open
the doors in everyone’s face.
Surviving this is a sleepy,
worn-out job, but the world
is made for giving, and it will be witnessed.