VOICEMAIL POEMS

The cut on my ankle bleeds into the shape of an exclamation point You speak and it comes out ornate swirling, as if from an an ancient book I’m trying to follow those letters which are, inevitably, words, through the tall yellow grasses at the edge of the lagoon where your charm bracelet lays splayed in the sand and my nose disappears into the blue Let me tell you about swimming: The bleeding stops The world ends long enough for you to miss it The cold snaps, like a spell from the end of a

How their branches seem to extend without burden in the lengthening light, their star-shaped leaves of deepest burgundy, weightless, more form than texture, surrendering to autumn air in such a way that it’s difficult to discern where leaf-tip ends and shade begins; until, wind- jostled, they flutter like wisps of cordovan dust out into a blue expanse of emptiness – traversing the chasm between having been and soon becoming – showing us a way forward, letting go without regret or

I hope all my books are banned books, like, so contraband they start trappin’ them out the bando— people fiendin’ for my words with such fervor clawing at the door for just one more taste someone keeps the lookout to make sure twelve don’t see the weight: tiny baggies filled with poem scraps pushed out from every corner I hope my books become so obscure that someone’s biggest flex is telling you they’ve read me and then you search for my Wikipedia page and all it says is