Eve Rounds

good morning untitled

what happens now

save every voicemail
not that his tone would have been forgotten
but to hear him call me
tweety
as many times as i can endure the playback

save every voicemail
not that hers isn’t comforting in the present
but just in case
doll or babe

just
in
case
a way that i had never existed until now
wtih this type of
tugging
torturous
terror
without any or all of them

what happens then

snip snip

the magic of a fresh cut
i am literally lighter
though not by much
my shoulders have less to lug
my neck has less to nodd
my jaw has less to shake
the dead ends discarded to the floor
some strands sticking to my soft sweater
to be cast later with an enchantment spell
i smile through the curtain at my forehead

but ok but

write some poems that i can give him
ok (but they’ll all be about the hims)
good idea bad idea no good

twinning and losing
our volcanos over the dining room table
past past now pssst
gratefulness
oh yeah i forgot that i am lucky.
greatness
truly.
better to have loved and lost…ok
but
truly.
BUT

this rotting yoke of numbness and lava
tongue pressed between my molars
an indentation of purpose
handwriting worse than his or his
but lacking his shape his zest

but wrote this okay

a 5 7 5 for e

peering through thick glass
your back to me is waiting
any news at all?

running down broad steps
into your brotherly arms
crying without breath!

the “honey” helps me
to let go not wanting to
you are my solid.

incircles

is it the ticking of the third hand
or the faucet dripping onto discount bulk blueberries
both measuring time
“going in circles”
as he would say
these days
when favoritisim has no force
but neither do flashing lights or this perfect view
chasing in circles and triangular dimensions
sprinklers soaking stone instead of lawn
the three of us meet in the driveway
behind the impeccably parked mini suv
masks muffling sobs
tears splattering plastic
embracing in circles

a poem about you for you (and you)

you are your own
though your temperament reminds me of him
your head is more
ripe mango
while his was more
soft plum
my love for you is wrapped in
the strangeness of patterns and rhymes
decadent meals and annual martinis
our spontaneous brush strokes
a good cackle cry on the screened in porch
confessions of tiny magnets
make you (and toni girl) my favorite

i don’t even know

how long it’s been. haven’t been counting days haven’t counted backwards on the calendar. haven’t bothered to reread my own words. haven’t been missing you

the five senses

your blue eyes and crooked lippy smile which i inherited that tiny soft bristle brush for your basically bald head the white corvette a campfire cards

love

what did falling in love feel like to you actual falling a new winter sweater a blood flutter did you question its science or were you

noise

sometimes the wind the waves muffle and drown my memories sometimes the wind the waves magnify and amplify the sound of your voice and clearing

the theatre

this is  a silent film flickering  catching  starting over emptiness surrounding such a blinding contrast ahead of us shared stories  captured images disconnected nonsensical we

Twins

It isn’t easy being a twin.   Others considered us as one two-part person,  while our parents saw,  in our conspiring, four or more.