if i thought for one second that i could drive. render you speechless. like hard candy melting on the tip of the tongue. a twisted word meant to hurt when it's spoke. i would speed. toe to heel pressure satisfaction. move these violations until tickets fell like ticker tape parades. paper snow caught in your hair of one forgotten word. like the way my unknown hips move to music unspoken. the slow whispers of deafness. the voice of yours my ears always forgot to hear.

watch me go.
wild dangerous disaster
like windscreens for insects.

i'd call you, to rid myself of you, get a knife and cut you out.

but i'm too busy, being happy. plus, i don't respond to people who talk to me that way. "fuck off" isn't usually a phrase that merits a positive response.

learn me about tact. you senseless prick. please.

thanks, for that.

Dearest Mum,

I know you've been concerned, but I've done quite a good bit of research, and, honestly, I think it's really rare for people to fall asleep and then fall off their motorbikes. Contrary to your suggestion, I will not need any bungee cords.

The freedom from all the riding I've been doing in the past few weeks is irrational. Necessary. I guess I always knew that hurling myself quickly through the world was the only way to make sense of it.

Don't worry, I'm being safe. And keeping myself in balance. Still.

Your adoring daughter,

Imogen

see

you cat my eye like marbles. count fingertips to spine explosion. roll round balls against roof and tongue. to splinter shake. memory of your mouth on my mouth speaking the name of my frame slow delicate glass on blacktop dancing. skip and slide the glow of my center when it hums. teeth to tongue sickness, when you laugh and only my frenum constricts, holds, the name of you when you're spent into darkness meant to hold secrets and names and long limbs longing to pretzel themselves inside your brain like a twist of the word or the touch of a finger against ribs. the laugh. diaphragm pressed and life-long excavations and leaving a sign you've gone home with a kiss missed before the parting of lips. begun.

sometimes i go into the bathroom and stand in front of the mirror for a long time
with my eyes closed
usually, i'm still there when i open them

I spend my time, these morning hours, watching him dress for work. Pull knees to chin. Fold like a naked hinge. Search every stitch. To smile. I keep thinking that all of this must just be a dream. But he's still there every morning when I open my eyes.

so, i'm spending my time standing in the sill -- pretending i can fly 

50 mile an hour winds 

my new boyfriend
this past weekend on a quick trip to Rome
got down on one knee
in the shade of a cypress
and asked me to marry him

at least i think that's what happened
he doesn't speak much english

my man tobias,
holder of many late night secrets,
took himself to the ground today
and died.

my name would still be the same, and there would still be days when only knee socks apply 

he says.

and i think, hmmm. yeah, well. and then. view the image of it again from 1500 miles away from home. maybe that's where the truth comes out. late at night or under the cover of love. when i think that no one else is paying attention. but you.

curl the corners of the universe to skew the centerfold of light gear my twists like wrist to ankle bone mutations skins for sails we wind wing like paper boats for death charms weave water the way palms to backs make love

for Vaughan

into his answerphone. 4:09 p.m. in my scared little girl voice

there was a grey spider on the windowsill just now,
so i whispered that little prayer you taught me to Sun Buddha,
before i smashed it dead

i call and wait for the part where his voice stops and the tone goes, and i speak into the empty space that holds our voices for us when intended ears find themselves unavailable:

the oven has been making a low humming noise all morning. moaning for me to climb in and curl up with coils. i need your fingers in my ears and someplace safe to rest my head for awhile.

i want to roll you in butter and salt. pull you out your soft under-belly with one of those tiny forks meant to wrench delicate crab from shells.

there were

lately
when i think about the things i used to let you do to me
i get afraid for myself

Dear Jess,

The other day my partner asked if I knew you. My mouth curled like smoke around door knobs -- filled my head with too many words that were nothing like an easy answer to that question. I had this sudden desire to call you up like old friends and ask you to play your favorite songs and let life fall into the places where gaps had grown while we'd been away.

I couldn't map myself to where you live. Recite your phone number or the name of your first boyfriend. I don't know how you like your tea or if you've ever broken a bone. If you're allergic to wheat and men from any place sort-of-like Tennessee. I could ride the afternoon number 10-line to Normal sitting right next to you, bobbing our heads to bumps and breaks like stuffed dolls, and never know.

But the sound of your voice feels like the backs of my grandfather's hands in the memory of summer. The way you imagine words and sounds of sense pulse the snakes just under my skin alive. Constantly remind me that to live life is to ask questions. You are as familiar to me as night-walking my apartment without the light. And as engagingly unpredictable as the breaking quality of true love and expensive stem ware.

I don't know your face. Where you came from. Where you'll go. Those things render themselves, often, pointless.
I'm just thankful I've gotten to see these pieces that fall out of you. Into me. Sometimes.

Always,

Imogen