Dismantling
They’re taking off the head of the snake,
and we are watching to remember
what we worry won’t exist once we can’t
see it anymore. First, they remove the tongue,
slippery from its metal mouth. This is
one of the last of these metal giants,
towering so great that it marks its place
in our memories, doesn’t change quick like
the landscape around it. They have packed up
the left edge of the cobra’s hood and are moving
Motels We Stay in While Trying to Get Pregnant: The Gables
A fresh coat of paint covers everything
and hides nothing, stubby Roman columns
zigzag like teeth along the banisters
and they cut, too, inside my hip bones.
And inside the rooms the walls are empty.
There is nothing beautiful anymore
about my body. We will try again
tomorrow and tomorrow. And we’ll fail.
