zouzounáki mou


I’m in love with a man

for the first time.


do you know what

that feels like?



slipping off of shoulders

in church


summer on places

my body

has never felt sunlight.



I’m in love with a man



do you know what

that tastes like?


salt in out hair

after an adventure

nowhere near the sea


champagne & oranges

when there’s none

in the fridge.



I’m in love with a man

for the last time.


do you know

what that means?


kind eyes

above my shoulder

in the bathroom mirror


flowers in my

hands when I

am holding his.



the flash cracks bright against my glasses and for the split second it takes my father to lower the camera and you to look up at me, i wonder if we’ll end up in the thrift shops that exist in my favorite books, celluloid proof of us filed into old baking tins and cigar boxes – polaroids & 120s & 35s & digitals all shuffled together in the wake of estate sales

if our grandchildren
will be pointing out the smile
that crept into your mouth and
out of your eyes as i wrapped
my arms around your neck
to their grandchildren.

There is film in our actions.

There is sand caught in the

rolled cuffs of your jeans; I

can see it there, longing for the

dusting of grains on your ankle

as you press the accelerator


below, the sea is patiently

teasing the shore & I can still

see us, bare feet beating like hearts

against the rocks, sailing the

gaps at a run, standing with our

hands clasped at what could be

the top of the edge

of the world.


The colors here are wiser; I’ve

been listening to them as you

drive. They smile at

me the way you do {a feat}

& when you speak, I

hear your voice from a long

ways off, back when the air

was incandescent & the music

was terrible – back


when it was the first



for the last time.


If Genesis Were Penned by Someone With My Wrists

So this is a marriage! said Janie

and I think on her bees, as wasps

fall from the caverned apples

my fingers graze – they

drop to the ground with the clatter

of peanut shells on bar floors, glutted

on saccharine knowledge and

the cold’s naked skin. She


picked ripeness; my brother & soon-to-be

sister are picking out couches, and I

am staring at my wrist, holding

the enamel bowl of fruit on

my cocked hip

as I would a child


wondering at how

they misconstrued Eve’s kindness

at sharing all she had with her mate


as a sin

and condemned the

raw sweetness of what it means


to be a woman.


First Birthday

I’m out in my time, the sky

swaying about me like the sleeves

of cold laundry on clotheslines &


past the river, the trains are singing.

It is boxcar season, it is ride-the-rails, let-

your-hearts-do-as-leaves-do time. Palm


to palm with my maker, her

woodsmoke breath in my hair,

I feel the edges of communion


on my hips.

The air is sentient.


It knows me.