» Poetry

Two Poems

Halloween: Ends

Michael Myers at the 711 filling up his SUV.
Michael Myers at Home Depot buying fancy drill bits he doesn’t really need.
Michael Myers sitting in the back of the room at the PTA meeting, scrolling through Tinder.
Michael Myers doing taxes.
Michael Myers scrolling through Facebook in the movie theater.
Michael Myers at couple’s counseling.
Michael Myers letting the dog out one night and telling the kids it ran away.
Michael Myers killing all the sex workers in Grand Theft Auto.
Michael Myers sitting in the back pew at church, scrolling through Tinder.
Michael Myers mowing the lawn on a beautiful Sunday afternoon.
Michael Myers wearing an apron that says I Rub My Own Meat.
Michael Myers getting drunk at his Superbowl party.
Michael Myers explaining the differences between a bratwurst and a sausage to a woman looking at her phone.
Michael Myers renting Saw IV again on Amazon Prime.
Michael Myers taking his mask off to have sex but leaving his socks on.
Michael Myers toweling off in the locker room.
Michael Myers rubbing against people on the train.
Michael Myers at the hotel bar explaining the difference between bourbon and whisky to a woman looking at her phone.
Michael Myers calling up toiletries and answering the door in his bathrobe each time.
Michael Myers ordering his burger well-done.
Michael Myers sending his food back twice.
Michael Myers not tipping.

Another autumn

                        after Mikey Swanberg

walking the mile
to work,

freezing in the morning,
sweating on the way back,

each step a stitch
quilting the heavy blanket

of our unhappiness.
Nothing has happened,

and still—

I imagined my lover

might show up

in my office
before I left,

shut the door
and we would fuck

quietly on the desk

to the rhythm

of the copy machine.

In another version,
he’d walk out to me

halfway along the mile,

stitching his own path,

and say something
he was never going to say,

that he had changed, and I
had changed, but

all for the better,
and we were stronger for it,

as though love
were a sourdough,

dying then restarting,
grown through being given away.

How long did I believe that time
was the most costly thing.

What a hard bargain
to find it is the only thing.