Every day is the most common day to get shot in the neck. To smell wild. To plant tulips in your tea. Every night I put on my dancing shoes before climbing into bed. It doesn't take much to understand the brilliance of sorrow. It's not if I see but when. Anything can be a sin if you have to change your clothes after. Since the early aughts I've been hiding my memories in the trunk of my car: The night we drank the lake. The night that ended with us blowing into empty champagne flutes. The morning of flutter that followed. Crying into cardigans I've hidden from moths. The moss covering the poem where you walked down the middle of the street, blindfolded, your stomach filled with swirls of blue. The poem you left between my thighs. The poem pressed against my gums. Springsteen's ass as cover art. Spilled aspartame on the kitchen counter. The shower head against my skin. Your cock. The shed of leftover lumber from the half-built bird houses, long abandoned, full of rot. The broken medicine cabinet. Nothing from 2020. The night you sang the beach to sea. Surely, you know. The second broken medicine cabinet. That time in the garage with the lightning pressed mute. Always, the rain. The dog bed that lost its smell. An empty picture frame. The cobwebs in the attic. The sheets bleached ghost. The smell of the hospital room. The supermoon that looked the same as every other moon. The first time our daughter reached and reached and kept reaching until her fingers found my chin.

I Google autofiction and immediately lose my virginity for a third time. I mail a forest to the moon and the moon says, What the fuck am I going to do with a forest? The moon mails the forest back. By the time the forest shows up in my mailbox it is dead or almost dead, so I put the forest in hospice. I hire a river to fuck up a bunch of matches. I quit poetry to start a chillwave band with Ben. We open for Wavves in an empty parking lot a few states away from the Pitchfork Music Festival. After, we set out on a solo tour of the east coast, playing behind tiny desks in the back of Office Depots. When I get home from tour, you tell me you quit love to wear socks with sandals. I take off my skin and run it through the dishwasher. Ben quits the band to open a library for books that never learned how to read. You open a Hanes Outlet in the closet. I find a snake in the sink, its belly bloated, full of air from the last ghost ever named Fred.