3 poems about love (kind of [but not really] sort of)

In an effort to pretend like I'm consistently creating content for this blog, here are three poems which were not specifically written for it. Crazy, right?

Paper Dolls

Held to the glass by a touch of scotch tape,
her snowflake stirs against the cold.
Its spires trace back to that point of explosive radiation,
the incision,
the idea.

When it came down a foot thick,
we climbed the hill that overlooked the city,
and you said you could see everything.
It was the first time you held your fingers to the veins in my wrist,
joining our cuffs like two in a string of paper dolls.

Inventory

Blue eyes, blue jeans,
and a little blue scowl
like a winter-bred flower:
all piled in your back seat,
all leaving in an hour.

It’s more than just books you’re taking,
forks, knives, and spoons;
it’s pancakes, it’s gardening,
it’s how to pick out fresh fruit.

I kept humor and insults—
the better part of our wit
now clutters my shelves.
Our vocab was yours though,
and my city-bus know-how

wouldn’t do much down south.
I can fry my own eggs
but I still fuck up the toast,
and while you won’t believe
in ghosts anymore,

you’ve still got blue,
and blue was always
my favorite color.

Ex-Sleazy-Nasties

The dashboard thermostat hits 101°,
and while this heat wave is nothing new,
lately it’s got people talking. For instance,
when I brush my teeth, my gums won’t stop bleeding;
syrup-thick swallows signal back to a 12-year-old
sex talk, when mom said AIDS came from sleeping
with someone who was sick:
see Ruthie; see Vicky; see Julie. 103°.
“How many people have there been?”
I wonder how many are still left to go -
sorry - I hope that doesn’t sound vain to you,
you, who’s wind I’m chasing already,
ashes upon the wake of empty freeway lanes.

But forget your ex, my ex, all names ending with an “E.”
Let’s take a cold shower. Wash. Rinse. Repeat.
Wet hair feels so good on nights like these.