Thanksgiving

This pumpkin is half empty,
Its thick rind violated, opened up
To expose a crime scene of fleshy fruit,
Leftovers rejected by a series of small,
Hungry stomachs filling up for winter.

You are evidence of this. Fat and gray,
Full of fruit and yourself,
You sit stubborn, triumphant
Atop your prey. Forgetting, momentarily
The softness of your own skin.

Lurve

We watched Annie Hall the other
Night and sat smiling through the
Whole thing, legs crossed and perched
On the coffee table, holding hands, tracing
Cryptic patterns on eachothers
Thighs, until Alvy started singing about
Love and both of our hands
Froze, unsure how manage that word and
A little nervous that if we kept scribbling
That’s what we would spell

Sometimes

Sometimes I think
I’m not like That Girl
In this movie, and
We’re not like Them.
We don’t open our books for each other.
We don’t fall in love in four days.
Sometimes
The thought of this movie, This Girl
Make my lips taste bitter
After they touch yours.
Are we out of sugar
Already?

Sometimes we find some.
Sometimes it spills at our feet
When we open the cupboard door
And I open my book
For you and you
For me,
But sometimes
I feel the idea of Them and Her
Crumble in my hands like old paper
And I can’t seem to grasp
It or You or Us
A pile of dust
Falling in silence
Filling the space
Between our eyes
Sometimes.