Status Updates From The Body's Question: Poems

My own figure slipping from the white palm of your upturned heart

It gives him an empty feeling below his stomach and all he can think to call it is ‘appetite’ and so he will lie when he kisses his napkin and says “hits the spot” as his daughter will lie when she learns to parrot him not yet knowing what her own appetite points to

Desire is a city of yellow houses / as it surrenders its drunks to the night

Eyes lit like sparks a house gives off / when it burns

The sky clouded over and the pavement went white. / I stared at my hands. Like new leaves, / Light breaking through from behind.