plans for plans

this is a poem I wrote a few weeks ago. it is one of a number that I have written in the past few weeks that I want to compile into a chapbook.




I left on moths
taste of solar dust
taken from the ceiling fan
sealing plans
for when you send limbs
to daughterhouses
you left empty curling spouses

when you ate arithmetic

I like when you said you'd take me to dinner. And conversion tables say the twelve skipped breakfasts and three drive thru lunches almost equals a dinner. You have to use the quadratic equation and round up from the third number beyond the decimal point, but I have it all on paper. Right under the unstubbed tickets for that show you mentioned that happened last night. Ask me again why you're here. The evenings cast a certain glow and you look like my father as you're zipping all my organs inside me. But glaring sevens rip you from that place and the door shuts with my tooth tied to the knob. spilling me on the laminate.