Yet and Other Poems


Getting blood drawn, I ask, “Don’t I have good veins?” so plump and glassy blue,
             Kool-Aid green, gold amethyst iris? Yes, yes they say, my hands

are full of blood
circling inside me forever. It’s nice to be awash in blood like an empty room, red in every direction. Plenty of space for nothing

to happen inside me:
just circling, dying off, re-creating. Sometimes

I wear my favorite sundress, dotted in flowers like a thousand mouths. My husband thinks I look
              like an anthropomorphic pond                             full of thrush and wet leaves.

Why is it one cannot smell oneself, know one’s own scent,
though the beloved drinks them up
like forgiveness?

When I run my hands over the apple tree behind my house, they smell like cider,

smoke, and rain.

An elm with her headlamp of leaves twists in circles, her face pretty as an icicle, a field
              of oxalis.

I make this mistake all the time: thinking if I touch, I’ll know. I won’t call this mistake desire, but
it has its way of briefly shining.

[ode to not]

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