swallowing her holy wafer
she licks her lips
for the altar boy

and it felt so good
to flour ourselves—
dumplings of China

couples
hands comfortably entwined
Red Rover instinct

summer dishes;
drying her hands
on his jean cheeks

coughing blood in the lazy boy
on each crescendo
promises of chickadees on the sill

And there they were. Down in his basement— a basement like every high school basement—shooting some pool. Those days had turned into two months, and now each second seemed to wear on him. He felt his sweaty hands slide down the stick as he waited his turn. She was lining up her shot, and from the depth of her v-neck, he knew it was going to be a good one . . . he shook his head in pretend disbelief as the orange ball crawled into the side pocket. They danced for a while- him sashaying to the left and her swiveling to the right—the table was starting to feel dizzy. And then because he had read in Cosmo that spontaneity was a good thing, and because he fucking wanted to, they met in the middle of their promenade with her back stretched across the green felt and his arms scattering the score. He was thinking about how to tell the story to his friends. She was thinking about how to tell the story to her friends. And a crazed menopause woman with the voice of a thousand gargoyles was thinking and screeching “GET OFF MY POOL TABLE!!” And there they were—him with a chipped tooth and her with a stamp of whore—it was laundry day.

Eight ball
as a head rest—
a shot at second base

hawaiin shirt suitor
knocks on my door
bouquet of poison ivy

blades skimming August
kissing the dust
I wish was you

the missing of Changchun
so crimson crimson red
I carry it always

legs wide apart
she asks him
Check on the kids?

finding
2nd grade valentine
no expiration date

Darfur thunderstorm
slashing her clitoris
he curses the rain