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Mark Dennis Anderson


To the Addict Named James

When the man from California asked
if you were alive, I was thrilled
to be the one to answer yes. I didn’t tell him

I named a candle after you, how
hours after the wick went out, you called,
left a message, I called back, left a message,

and by noon you were safe again.
I didn’t tell him I washed and folded
your clothes, tried on that shirt, the red,

white, and black plaid flannel – the one
your mother gave you – and took pictures
of myself in the mirror. I didn’t tell him

it took less than three seconds
to fall in love with your legs. The man
from California didn’t believe me

when I said you were clean.
Now, almost a year since I didn’t tell
the man from California

these things, months after your latest
disappearance, I name every candle, star,
tree, and bus stop James.

This time, if you don’t call, if
you don’t leave a message, after I throw up
one of my ribs, I’ll tell the man

from California it’s your voice I hear
every morning, whispering
never is a long time. 
​

The Changeover

Déjà vu is just tired neurons firing
into that part of the brain obsessed

with the past. Would any of us
be surprised if astronomers

discover that the universe is sealed,
shaped like a manila envelope?

Dusk is a minor second resolving
to a minor third, dissonance to sadness

but relief nevertheless. I am obsessed
with headphone jacks, deadbolts,

and sterile nail clippers. What if
what we fear isn’t that we’ll never

change but that we keep missing it?
Blinking sometimes skips scenes,

sometimes entire chapters. They say
human mouth cells replace themselves

every twenty-four hours, so kiss me
every morning as if for the first time.
​

Bromide Oasis

At the bottom of a blue pool,
in the middle of a desert,

a palm frond casts a shadow
like a scar in the firmament.

The water tastes of bromide,
unlike the usual sanitized

chlorine graveyard of binders
and bandaids. Men in locker rooms

talk of rattlesnake and fire.
My father points to a small shed,

a public restroom at the edge
of the fairway, tells of a man

who called the police to report
his suicide, finger-gun to head.

Tomorrow, I’ll swim an extra ten
laps in this bromide oasis, call it

front crawl gratitude, surface
to the sun above the jagged horizon.
​

To the Woman Drinking a Protein Shake
​at the Corner of France Avenue and
​American Boulevard
                                     ~Bloomington, MN

I wish I could say
you didn’t have to hit
that squirrel.

She didn’t die right away,
or maybe she did.

Grief twitches, either way.
​

Picture


​Mark Dennis Anderson's profile

That Thing About Inner Life  ☊

The clouds this morning are doing that thing
where they roll along the horizon
blacking out the sunrise 
like some ominous distant mountain 
range like I'm out west not stuck 
in this flat middle and this run 
to the gas station is a wilderness 
expedition and this fear in my chest 
is fear for my life 
because beyond that tree (street 
corner) or across that river (stop 
light intersection) a mountain lion (tan 
sedan) or grizzly (black 
SUV) might be doing their thing 
minding their business until their business 
is my business and all this business 
of living crashes and collides 
like galaxies or atoms or lovers 
doing their thing that looks like destruction
but is actually creation until all the things 
quivering with relief
lay trembling on the floor
​

Breaking Fast

Your lips, coastal –
open to me.

Chili pepper,
​I want to sweat you out.
​

Elegance

All that is stepped over.
Weeds in a vacant lot,

insect oasis
in an asphalt desert.

For every action,
there is reaction.

Petrified milkshake
oil spill, an empty

box of sparklers,
a discarded lighter

collecting condensation.
Joy’s inevitable

aftermath, algebra
of debris. At the edge

of the curb, a butterfly
wing, broken,

arrested phosphorescence
in dawn’s early light.
​

Look at These Altars
                   ~for my mother

The first night after you died,
your body gone not twenty-four hours,
Dad suggested we put up the tree.
Not the family Christmas tree
with its tedious multicolored strands
and gifted gaudy ornaments,
but the little white tree for the deck,
the one you christened Twinkle.
Then the flakes began to fall
and we all sighed must be a sign.
Behind the tears, I rolled my eyes
as the snow fell in its proverbial silence.
No, said the snow, building itself
on the tiny boughs, little heaps
of light illuminating our faces.
Look. Look at these altars.

Want

to skip band and go back to my place, steal
my dad's car and leave everyone in the dust 
of boys will be boys? I know I do. 

I want to take turns driving, arm wrestle
at rest stops, blast Charlie Parker crossing bridges,
watch you play the dashboard trap-set

with your mouth half-open while I blow the horn. 
I want to open my closet, let you borrow
one of my shirts (I know your affinity

for button-down plaids) and forgive you
for returning it to me unwashed. Dirty,
I know. I owe so many of my loves to you,

drummer boy, loves that will mark me 
until the double bar. Detergent plus cologne
plus that ineffable scent only high school boys

in love with high school boys 
are permitted to transpose.
​

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***

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