What sublime fuckery
of the redblood ocotillo
under the stars like change
chingling in the pockets of night.
The wind god here
gets tortured by the flowers’
thousand wanting mouths
and adores it.
Michelle Campagna recently discovered (at 31) that you can call the White House directly. If you feel like shit isn’t okay, and let’s be honest—it isn’t, you can also call the White House directly: 212-456-1111.
CAST OF CHARACTERS: two women, one young, one old, both lonely.
THE TENANT, an aspiring writer in her late twenties who is in New York to study journalism.
THE LANDLADY, a sixty-year-old former actress who teaches aerobics in the city.
Sixty-five degrees and bare arms, her and me, on the stoop. Our spot. Listening to the space in between us, as hard as it was to hear. The sun made us squint and I rubbed it into my skin, for later.
On the subway, three perfect
poofs frame flushed cheeks.
Lips pucker, sweet as stolen
fruit snacks. I make the rules
I point towards the Foothills in the distance, an expanse of grey reaching toward the blue above, painting the sky an envelope yellow. *That must be fire,* I tell you, and move my hand from the shifter to your knee.
*No, no,* you say. *I think it’s just clouds.*
But he has a Border Collie’s mind and obsessions; he oscillates with nervous energy and is burdened with a sense of duty that he, being sheepless, can never quite fulfill. The only time he is at peace is when we walk at the creek.
Outside and through the passenger window Theresa noticed the last remnants of neighborhoods, places where an occasional garage light disappeared behind a satellite dish, or a vine- covered fence protected houses from the sight of the highway.
In my country, women are allowed
six or eight arms, as many as we need
on a given day.
