Mark Dennis Anderson
To the Addict Named JamesWhen 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 ChangeoverDéjà 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 OasisAt 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
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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 FastYour lips, coastal –
open to me. Chili pepper, I want to sweat you out. EleganceAll 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
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