On Becoming an Herbalist

I look for sturdy

in the forest, pull 

the dandelion 

from the ground and roll

the petals in my mouth.

The once-flower

now a melting filagree,

my once-tongue

now a pigeon gone dark

an umbra to the sun.

My body, like picked petals, 

has slumped from me, languid 

and liquid in a way no flower 

can bring back.

The End of Luckiness

My teeth pull the yellow pearls

from their sockets with a buttery froth. 

Summer is waning, the cornsweat makes the platter

glimmer like sunken treasure, and I am caught

mid-mouthful when my grandfather begins

a rendition of grace so recycled that the whole family 

has it memorized. He only spares his shallow, smoke-

shot breath on the words because they are all that is left 

of his parents. We rush to swallow in secret 

and bow our heads. Bless the lord for the food we eat 

and the company we have, he begins, and I feel the heavy sun,

the fat heat, cake my neck, and may we be lucky forever. 

We all smile and nod, and the plates get passed around. 

After dinner, when I find myself watching the fireflies in the yard

pantomime a childhood that has come and gone, 

I notice he’s getting ready to go, too. Leaving early to outrun

dark, he lifts the frail tobacco boozed jungle 

of his body. A curse his younger self placed on him, 

yet he’s still here. I don’t know if that’s strength 

or luck. When he gets home, he’ll sit in the same chair 

his father died in. His grandfather, too. 

And he would tell you that in the end, he’d be so lucky 

to suffer the same fate. A firefly alights on my arm

as my mother brings out dessert. My dad and my brother

are talking about baseball. May I be this lucky forever.

The Lovers

After Rene Magritte

Do you remember the dream

where time stood still? Now

every glance holds the fervored 

whole of our hearts, no matter 

how labored and slight 

their beatings have become.

So say we’re covered. Say we’re

the mannequins of businessmen

or ghosts of clarinetists.

Say you pull me into your arms. 

I may not recognize the dearth 

of the world but bring your mouth 

to mine, for I would know the mirth

of our lips, that soft embouchure, 

at any time, in any life.