common descent 

everyone says craig brought the skunks 
to martha’s vineyard in the sixties—one male, one female— 
like a vengeful noah. he denies it 
when he dies. his farm still smells like fear 
& roadkill sprinkles guilt across the island 
because from far away they’re cute. the skunks. everyone 
believes the myth of craig—even my father, 
who read it in the paper & is usually resistant 
to gossip. craig brought the skunks 
but the doe brought herself. apparently 
a pregnant deer swam across the sound 
all alone, from the mainland, before op-ed’s, when 
news was word of mouth. her belly breached 
the tide. when my mother lobs her cooking scraps 
into the woods beyond the yard, her descendants 
eat what’s given. not me—the deer 
ravaging the bush. i'm not shocked by her desire 
to escape. that flotsam doe. i envy her 
resolve. this is why i pity skunks. they don't know that 
swimming is an option. when everyone is arguing 
who did what & why like god forbid 
there happen to be animals, i picture that doe 
pregnant on the edge, eyeing the chop of buzzard’s bay. 
with everything to lose, haven out of sight, i wonder how 
she chose which way to swim.

south of last chance, Idaho

my reverend aunt gave me her car.

now i can drive through owyhee
to see her parish! in the middle of the desert
lakes are puckered by the heat, and distance
tricks them wet. god’s 
country isn’t walkable—even the bishop 
drives three digits. in nola, père pauline
rushes home to lick the feet
of his beloved. he thrusts his head
beneath the soles, tongues
the strap of christ’s
sandals, shines the leather
with his spit. i think
if père pauline was
here he’d be a bootblack. and if christ was
south of last chance, he’d be 
unlickable—heel to toe-
nail caked with dust. so unsexy that 
i bet if he came out 
from that dry scrape
of desert land, walked the miles
into town (as he does) he’d collect
rocks as his apostles. not a living soul 
driving through owyhee
would slow down enough 

to offer him a ride. 

* Pontius Meropius Paulinus (c. 354 – 431) was a Roman poet and consul. He became a bishop after the death of his wife. In a surviving letter to an intimate friend, Paulinus details a desire to kiss and lick Christ’s feet before making his way up Christ’s body to ask for kisses from Christ’s mouth. He begs to use just the tip of his tongue. In the Old Testament, feet are sometimes a euphemism for genitalia. In the Anglican tradition, Bishop Paulinus is venerated as Pauline.

fly fishing with darby

i’m at the level of a lesser
masculinity. darby doesn’t waste
time showing me the flies 
before he ties em on the line. there’s a cold one
in the chest & he can’t hold a pen
steady but by god can he
swap out a zebra midge.

trust your gut (especially if you’re a hot girl with IBS) 

the gut is an oracle. tossed bones stoke its fire 
into meaning, apophenic rumblings choose the style 
of your hair, what you wear, when you love, who you love, 
who loves, you, love. smoke 
coils in its chamber & expands, cracks inflame. 
aggressive peristalsis bends your body, 
time & space, astral projecting on the next 
consuming whether-or-not. every cramp prophetic 
—psychometric. a line 
touching back through your decisions 
until birth. the genesis of here and now 
is chyme: antiquarian whatever 
of whatever you digested. you rely on 
cecal divination. epithelial protection. belly 
aching auguries are true. somatomantic 
visions are spasmodic but specific. your flesh 
is indication good as any—if not better. you can trust 
your gut. it immolates 
because it cares! if you’re stressed, 
shaking your magic gastric 8-ball 
with the hand of pican spices, signs will point to no. 
you can ask again later—beg your body 
to be hot & look auspicious as you grow out of its shape, 
acidic adolescence finally swallowed—when 
your intestine’s not obstructed by hard minerals. but the gag is 
hydroxyapatite in bones curses your appetite for life. calcium 
tastes like bad luck. the osteal approach to divination 
is self-subterfuge. being a hot girl is a scam.