Dream With Empty PocketsWe're face to face on the banks of a dried out lake, a letter in your upturned palms. You tell me to take it, but each time I try, it melts into your wrist at the spot where the blood beats loudest. You turn your pockets inside out and show me my name, sharpied on the cloth lining. Every hour on the hour a tour group leaves to explore the dusty basin: strangers, masts of ships, rotted wood, fossilized bones of unidentified fish. Shut UpI don't want to peel the carrots or wash the knife or write poems anymore about how he fucked me or wronged me or stole my book about heartache and Mallarmé and the muteness of the body. I don't want to pluck the stray hairs between my eyebrows or wait a reasonable amount of time to write him back or lather the conditioner into my scalp while I think I hate myself I hate myself I hate myself like the little engine that could. My new book says you cannot stop thinking even if you think you can. I think I can write to this new guy. He's a 92% match & likes Judith Butler & bacon wrapped dates & has a pretty good grasp of syntax. Am I a snob? I'm sick of making these little well-behaved poems that sit and eat and shit and talk and fuck at all the right times. At parties I tell the same story: how he dumped me on the last day of our Parisian vacation and played Angry Birds on the plane ride home. I stared down at the clouds until they were no longer clouds. I couldn't say what love is anymore but could use the word love in a poem and really mean it. I'm mean sometimes, I'll admit it. I press my face against the window just to feel its voicelessness. Across the street the leaves on the tree turn at once in the wind like a school of fish, and I think how everything shifts, how he flipped onto his back in his sleep, how the light touched our bodies until our bodies were no longer there to be touched. How to Behave Like an AdultFirst, build a wall. Any material will do: brick, salt, cake, flesh. Now, sit on one side and think about what you have done. Patrick Dundon is currently an MFA candidate at Syracuse University where he serves as editor-in-chief for Salt Hill Journal. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in BOAAT, Sixth Finch, The Adroit Journal, DIAGRAM, Smoking Glue Gun, Poor Claudia and elsewhere. |