2 September 2004 | Vol. 4, No. 3

Tuesday

by JEN CURRIN

Bees in the apartment, a burnt smell.

Always I send what can only be called love.

Eating goat cheese & our friend's salad

we are frivolous as pronouns.

You address your lyre,

I pray to the fucking

& celibate goddesses.

Some are better from a distance,

like she who kisses as she dances.

Your fingers smell like coffee grounds.

I am you.

I have no desire to tell a story

but there is one that starts:

On our bike ride to the volcano

an owl stared through my sister…

I have been in my wrong mind.

The mind of a teacher shaking out a bag of paper.

When we don't fall there is not much to say.

An entire black-and-white existence—

You know, we know, it is known.

I'm not a story but a bathside table.

I stare long at the number eight.

My sister said don't eat the green potatoes.

I have no desire to.