I Ask AI to Write a Poem for My Lover
and it writes me a red flag. According to science,
love enters midlife crisis at 17 months. We are
at 11.
Augury
I’d been bleeding for a year when we unsexed the frog.
Cold and pungent from formaldehyde, it lay with limbs
splayed and pinned to the tray.
Sweet Peas
All along the back fence
Tucked between the incinerator
And the clothesline, hidden from view
Meandered the prodigal sweet peas.
Basic Needs
Listen,
I could tell you about the hot cat shit
That lay in the hallway
Just outside of my mother’s bedroom
