The Maynard
Spring 2018

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The Retrograde of a Frigid Planet

Wonder after youths with used tampons hidden in their backpacks
             parting from youths without bathroom wastebaskets.


Mine plays Rhye’s Woman from a portable speaker carried about
his Hochelaga apartment, pretends not to know what he’ll make
of us when it’s laid across the countertops.


Something earthy and alive muscles this story, its uterine bloods.


A line smudges when he relays his toddler myopia, first glasses
             and screaming from the car seat:
             Mom, the mountains—wow mountains!


Some lifespans we close without witnessing any miracles.


I divide my life into who wants me and who doesn’t, blame this
             on my astrological alignments. Therapy’s shortcomings.
             You.


Inhabiting my second person doesn’t take much effort is a reply I unsend
             to E, and she posts a photo of dried, paper-held flowers
             floating, a specter above her keyboard.


Gifts take on second life, an unintended agency, in the givee’s home.


I’d circle back to this boy, disclose more of his ephemeral intimacy
             but there isn’t much point.
             Mercury was in a weird place.


I felt dirty for weeks when he said, A part of me dies when I disappoint
someone, and I replied, How is there anything left? I meant we live so
long and disappoint so much.


Except it was cold. Oh, I’m cold. I am.