HAVING NIGHTS WITH YOU (& other poems)

by Vanessa DeWolf

We meet in our dimly lit bathroom
two full bladders, two empty glasses
orange bathroom not primed—-> 6 layers of orange latex over that green-gray —-> brushes rinsed 2am, year 2000
the moon hovers over our quiet pale __________________________ I could be waiting
nudity, shoulders point-touch, naked, the sound ________ for the day, on my back
of running water & spiraling bar-soap in hands. _______ heat off you & your rumble
Clean towels from laundry
IF I BAKE AN APPLE TART TOMORROW ______ ▷ the bedroom more on my mind than yours
To eat an apple tart with you _____________________ when you cross your hands on my crown
look over forks/mouth the ________________________ and mine softly rest on the sheet↩︎
tart apples/space between us ____________________ then on side of your chest-rhythm __________ I could get lost
maple leaf/mountain now snow-peaked ______________________________________________________ in dreaming [sigh]
and piles of soft fallen yellow———underfoot __________________________________________in bed/sinking in & down
You swallow your last bite long after my devouring
Then the television-lights-screens all dark _______________________________ >TO HAVE ANOTHER NIGHT WITH YOU <
In bed a fleeting of my orphan state and your fatherless one /bittersweet mixture of once-were-children/two bodies
here next to you like a fading bedsheet-stain——————————————> SALTY, PERMANENT, SPILLING, HISTORICAL
& non-alkaline/// I close my eyes/// WHOLE ROMANESCO———————> Fractal green cauliflower! I’m roasting
vegetable dinner ___________________________________________________________ > MY LEFT HAND RESTS ON YOUR RIGHT HIP
________________________________________________________________________________ ANOTHER NIGHT WITH YOU <

VERISIMILITUDE IS NOT A PLACE TO HIDE

We are taking photographs on a trip. It’s okay we think, we’ve done this before.  We’ll use our phones, keep that kind of distance, be tourists. We are anonymous and the place is famous, so every inch is both in our imagination and out there. /// She’s been in and out of here all her life.  A feather or a shell she carries.  The kind of carapace that prevents it from being a symbol, it’s a storage unit or some unavoidable bitter smell, the sweetness all evaporated. And how far away is it for her? /// Impressive cupolas and gingerbread details in a blue, so blue sky. Shutterless. Sprocketless. Not a single –click-advances our film.  We are the smartphone duet of poses and posing distracted by the task of framing. /// She is in unfortunate clothing, a size too small, too tight, digging in.  Her mascara is precise, eyeliner hides her wings. The bite.  She is unphotogenic because she does not want to be accidental background.  /// You can’t tell on this kind of day where danger might be. Danger doesn’t even know it’s dangerous. /// She’s holding in her flab with the strength of her jaw.  She is trying to breathe. /// We are lost. She is lost. /// We drop one phone, shatter screen.  We drop the phone as we escape, as we notice basements & attics, as the rise of secrets—————-actual living that causes us to run. We’ve been recognized. We, fugitives, are most afraid of recognition. /// Not guns, but phone pings + GPS identifications and this. .  . this pale blue sky in victorian town, demolishes from its symbol & our imagination. /// We were named too truly.