On the Drive Home (poem)

My mother asks, "Do you ever think

in poetry?" She says she does

sometimes, though she doesn't

know about form. It's so dark tonight.

Starless, almost void, and we are driving home.

I tell her I do think in poetry

and she seems satisfied. I do, after all,

have an advanced academic degree

in writing and now I have proven I use it,

even if only internally. We barely talk

as we cruise along the freeway, mother and daughter,

so similar, even, as it were, in thought.

It's Christmas and we are a family reunited.

Only in thought do I admit I am the same as her.

I ride, she drives, and I think in poetry

until it screws my face up into a wad of discontent

and my mother asks me more than once

if I'm OK. I say I am. I'm probably not lying.

The poetry keeps me honest.

Dog Daze (poem)

You will find me buried
up to my neck in green and yellow towels that need to be folded correctly
and sorted into piles of whole - versus - holes.
And I will be sloshing in tiny red buckets full of watered-down bleach and soap
scribbled with faded names of schnauzers and pugs.

I act as dishwasher, cage scrubber, and hostess.
I act as groomer, bather, and drier.

I will be with you in a moment --
after crawling out from under the thumb of an impatient customer
who rolls her eyes and claps her teeth together.

And soon I will be the shepherdess leading the flock of stationary
pets away from the door --
I say once again, “No, they never go out.”

I act as policewoman, mother, and friend.
I act as taskmaster, baby-sitter, and mute.

I turn a deaf eye toward the thunder-clap shouts of shoe-
size-four patrons
who dash through the super tunnel vision of their actual folks
And I pretend not to notice the sound of glass breaking.

I act as laundry maid, bartender, and cook.
I act as slave-driver, slave-driven, and free.

You will find me sighing
shuffling my feet, treading water in air.
You will find me pulling my hair out, counting split ends.

And I will be glancing at the clock on the fake pillars
of Lily’s garden
And I wonder how three hours can feel like fifteen minutes
and fifteen minutes can feel like three hours.

Maybe we should boycott time and learn a line dance.

I act as scholar, expert, and chief.
I act as lackey, imbecile, and brute.

See me flip the CD player and toss Sheryl Crow aside
(not because I don’t like her but because she’s boring me).

See me open the case and put in the Beatles
(because they are never boring).

You will soon find me laughing
at the girl who names her new puppy Bruce --
at the old story about Nancy’s wig and a bottle --
at the strange phone call about sugar gliders --
at the comfortable, sad truth of this place --

See me slide my key in the lock
and leave dog daze behind.

Massacre (poem)

Flesh can be cut from bone
And re-fitted onto other flesh.
We call this a mask.
We call this terror.
Even in movies, blood and sweat
are liquids of mass destruction,
constantly flowing, constantly infecting
every stark point of life.
May I begin by welcoming
what is dark and damp and hidden
in basements and crotches, anywhere
dark and damp, and what I mean
is let’s not leave what shivers
us out in the cold. Invite it in.
Wear fear like a stretch of someone
else’s skin. Let it be damp.
Let it grow moldy on bone.

All the Same (poem)

I can forget without forgiving.
Melissa Coogan

I have a long memory,
longer than any other capacity
within me. I don’t love as long,
hate, or stall in neutrality
as long. I remember what you said
that night we met (You can’t leave
until this wine is gone) and I remember
that you attempted an I love you
too soon and I remember all
the details you’ve omitted since;
these staggered moments
are grayishly all the same.
Because in the span of seconds,
you test my ability to love
and hate and shrug, so when I look
back on these winks of time, they blur
into one, which means this:
I haven’t forgiven you.
I can’t remember if I should.

With and Without You (poem)

I want to say things are OK
without you, that I’ve finally found
a path disconnected to your door.
I’m in love again, even, with a man
who’s so good, you’d never understand
him. I want to say I’m happy
in this chaotic limbo and I want
you to know I’ve finally given up
on us ever reconciling. And all this
is true and every word is checked,
but somewhere deep inside me,
you still live, comfortable and mean.
That probably pleases you and I don’t
know how else to fight it except say stay
as long as you want. Maybe
I sort of need your pit within.

Waiting Game (poem)

It’s a waiting game with changing rules.
Day turns to night and everything’s cooled
except for you.
I’ve learned not to ask questions
when you’re mad and quiet.
These are life lessons that I do
not challenge. I roll along
here, across from where you stare
into the blurring haze of dusk
where stars may start to burn
and it’s my turn to flip a switch inside.
Electricity was discovered, not invented.
Channeled, not controlled. I am your bulb
and I might break or fizz out
before this darkness makes you shout
about all the reasons you need me
to lose. It’s not a fight that I choose
but I can’t tell you no.
Instead, I say it’s the way
I learned to play this game: turn the board
and close your eyes, please, for me.

Used to this (poem)

I. You, you broke my heart again
(and not for the last time, I know).
That was tonight
II. and I had a dream
where you leaned into me and said
your girlfriend was blowing you
off tonight and you kissed me,
broken with passion, and I was surprised
by how quickly you walked away.
Stunned, I’d say, both of us.
III. There was a time before
where I meant everything I said
and you would listen and you would
react.
IV. Like the time I had a dream
you were swimming with my nephew
at least a year from now and my mother
greeted you warmly with a splash.
You looked at me and smiled and tossed
my nephew up for the water to catch.
V. I don’t know what to think anymore
I only know that I cannot choose
not to love you. Not even subconsciously.
Or especially. I am at a loss.
I am used to this.