A frog, too,

years ago

its soul brazen and bubbling, 

gaseous in a blank tank. A turtle, a few weeks before Halloween,

maybe 2015?,

imploded by an industrial boot on Market Street. Remember him, my mind said,

and I did. I either remember too much or nothing.

I either feel too much or nothing.

More like 

I either take the wet leaves out of the well

or gulp them down with determination. I watch endless

Youtube clips of young straight women

feuding with families I don’t know 

before picking out a wedding dress. I’m playing barbies again.

It doesn’t matter how long they’ve know their Atlanta or UK or

Kleinfeld inspired sweetheart, wrapped up in a cream cheese bow.

Some of them will end up divorced; dead. I think of it 

like I know how life works.

I let tears well up in my eyes;

doubts bounce back with mischief like a dyke kid in a Catholic mass.

Will I be married to the same crowd? Questions of mermaid or princess in my

suit-for-prom mind, silly, carefree, the same pets 

leaving scents on my ankles? Of course not, but

my subconscious and neural pathways like to sneak away 

and touch tongues in Taurus, the taste buds twisted.

Remember that, I say, because I’m either 

not mature enough

or not old enough

to understand loss. I watch Magnolia and Synecdoche with confusion.

Trust, but confusion. My heart’s not in it, but I’ll make sense of grief—real grief—

when I’m older. They leave, and I cry,

but I can’t write a good poem.

Too many metaphors. Too many circles, magazine clips cast round the 

collage, copied and pasted with clear glue, sticky 

acrylic cheeks,

overboard.