Epithalamion with Angel of the Apocalypse

We walked for miles on the sand’s firm ribs, afterthoughts

of high tide strung among them: sea glass, ghost shrimp,


lion’s mane jellyfish. Finally married: my mother’s relief

& the rings to prove it, carved with waves


from some ancient obelisk. This after the six months

my neurons sat sparking on their ends    cut cables in a dark tunnel –


I shrugged myself on again,     nerves cool & wet

under my lace dress. Mornings


I took the train across the Mersey to wander

the bombed-out churches smoldering purple


with loosestrife & storm, the cathedral aglow

with pink script: I felt you and I knew you loved me.[1] I scrawled


postcards home like some girl on the edge

of empire as I waited for him to return,


my arms full of takeout cartons blistered with rain,

a few perfect apples; those afternoons I believed


the rest of our lives could be this damp, green & free, before

my wires began arcing live again


beneath my nightgown sleeves –



[1] from Tracey Emin’s “For You,” exhibited at Liverpool Cathedral

Apocalypse Logic

Two boston-tilixam asked the people in line behind me, “Is this the line to get in?” When they heard that it was, they went to the front of the line.

from August

a fire my mind/
entirely a house of cinder in/
a house of cinder

Burden of Proof

After the towers, I never left / an empty grocery cart astray / but rolled it across the parking lot / back to its designated spot.