Dada

Google Dadaist art

and the first thing 

you see is a man 

with apes for eyes.

Makes you want to 

collage over everything.

Siphon the rest

-lessness from 

the story till

it shines 

like a signed

urinal. Cut out

the missiles and 

replace them

with megaphones

the size of men 

or jars of mayo.

Paper over his penis

a plastic bear

with slow honey. 

Your mom’s diet pills 

float to the ceiling 

like birthday balloons. 

I’m not trying 

to simplify anything.

The platypus is 

poisonous. 

Pepper spray in 

the junk drawer. 

Glue an eye 

over your Dad’s 

eye when he doesn’t 

believe you. He doesn’t 

need anything else.

---

You Let Us Rollerskate In The Condo

—That’s what I want to write, not the night

I first heard you purging penne vodka

into the toilet, not what you said 

on the phone those weeks I walked 

to Krauser’s alone: You were the biggest 

one in the whole damn recovery facility. 

I don’t remember whose idea it was 

to strap on the mud-caked skates; 

Kate and I pushed back the coffee table,

the books scattered into birds.

The popcorn ceiling bursting into

butter-colored mornings in the park 

before the divorce—different from 

Dad’s house with its sitting room 

we weren’t allowed to sit in. We rolled 

across the wall-to-wall carpeting 

in our minds. We stumbled. Our wheels 

catching in the weave, we laughed 

when you joined in, and trying to hold 

our hands, pulled us down with you.

Falling became the game; it was funny 

to trip each other, tug down hard on a sleeve.

We didn’t cry when we hit the soft 

carpet, didn’t act like it hurt when it hurt.

---

Elderly Couple Found Dead Buried Under Snow

The man on top

of the woman,

frozen like the slice 

of wedding cake 

my mother kept 

for years in the freezer. 

They’d been there 

a week. They walked 

a mile before giving 

up and lying down

a hundred yards 

from the house

they couldn’t see

through the storm.

How close we are to 

what we’ll never reach. 

I imagine her

in snow-soaked denim 

like a pressed flower 

beneath him,

what they said 

in their final moment.

I’d let the flurries 

melt into our

four-poster bed, 

we’d roleplay 

safety: Not tonight

honey, I’m tired.

Pass the hand cream. 

You get the light.