Jen Currin

It's in the hand—a wandering—

my eyes, the pockets

of your pants.

The imaginary café where I met him

burned down, taking our last glances.

Is he our grandfather,

writing lesbian love poems?

Of doors and red-eyed windows,

the senses before sight.

I became specific

in my body.

I had a laughter & for that

you had fir trees.

So the wire bird abandons writing.

I give up

my plastic mouse.

The apartment lobby choked with incense.

Tiger said why are you

so pretty. I have seen you in pearls

and laces. At night

kissing each part of your nothing.

Always I send what can only be called love.

Eating goat cheese & our friend's salad

we are frivolous as pronouns.