HUMAN RESOURCES 1
Not quite sure what the dawn
keeps shoveling over us
but there’s a pond full of it out back.
The ducks there have mass, give mass,
die slightly from the water.
In mass, they flee toward the porch
as a dog sets upon them from the path.
In the kitchen, I don’t know why I’m nervous,
so I douse myself with green tea, makeover shows.
Bright veins open. Five beers in,
I imagine the windows of our home
unblown to sandstone cliffs,
swallows looping our heads like sprung snares,
some lost goat refusing to climb.
I write a stick-it note to you,
press it to the tv screen:
Please, let’s not make history tonight.
If you come home.
Just let’s sit with the pond.
Let the dawn dissolve us in its gathering.
The anthropologists will be here soon enough.
Mistaking my semen stains for gypsum glyphs.
Ignoring the drop of your menstrual blood
I leave to share the gray, fitted sheet of my bed.
Our preservation has nothing to do with us.
Our bodies are not our bodies poured from plaster.
I’ve left my heart and mouth and penis
preserved for you
in ziplock containers in the freezer.