dry blood.

sometimes he remembers 
me like the smudges
of prayer dug into margins of
hotel bibles-- he talks to 
god indifferently-- like
you would 

     a bus seat
that august was a trickle
of dried blood in the 
river bed where the tadpoles
ghosts hung like over-used
commas & the foot notes
tied up the shoelaces
of the psalms-- 
yes god never made 

    enough days in summer
for us to love our bodies
clean of the rest of the 
year-- 

     that june we bled
hard & blue down our forearms--
sticky children of the bellies
of ferris wheels--
this is the appropriate

    time to kiss me--
this is where we unlearn
our acts of contrition--
learn to ask forgiveness
from our dandelion gods
absolve me of

     my sins-- pull out my 
white hair & i'll make
three wishes as penance--
they never had me believing
in reconciliation-- i take 
up my sins with 
the knotted knees

     of the oak-- he's 
grown into a shape of humility--
the body laid out on the pews
for the viewing-- we make
the park bend into a pew
to bend each other's

     human-orchid bodies
evaporating before 
each other's eyes--
phantom as the drying creek--
we huddled in the stagnant pools
to try to get 

     a glimpse of air 
between the fish-- cut each
other loose like kite strings--
we made a honey moon out
of the playground we

     were born in--
you lick your thumb & rub
the dried blood off my cheeks
like the 

     ink smudges on
the margins of bibles--
what were you doing looking
for me there?
you know if you miss
me you just need to

     blow the white
hair off all the
dandelions