Ashley Oakes
I Am Glad God Is Not My Boyfriend
He would always want to drive
when shopping, his favorite candy
too hard
to find in stores. He might rush me through
my favorite show: One has seen this
before. He talks this way,
an important other person—I fear
his weak motor impulses. He really thinks
he moves the mountains. He takes
seriously
his role as literal originator of all things
including me. One has made (god might muse
at bed time) your brown eyes: One delights
in them. I would see him take off his clouds
and undo the buttons
he likes to call the world
and he would hang it
on a chair, the slightly ammonia
odors of prayer. I would get
tired of
his touching me, the toes
big as continents. He has a tendency
to be controlling. In mornings he would swim
the sticky stream of blood vessels from my heart,
making it pump. He would get inside my head.
If The World Should End While Driving Through A Car Wash
I will be alone in a box as the planet brushes against me pressing the button
for a soft gloss finish, this waxy upgrade leaving a trail on my windshield
the sun might notice before pulling the covers over his burning head
he could extend a bridge as he did for a friend of mine (who died
and who I envy for getting to leave before the next election.) I am jealous
of the birds and wings, generally. If the world ends this way I will miss
new shoes, chocolate and the malfunctioning clock on my dash always
ahead, storing the extra minutes so that I find them
in the glove box where I have forgotten what they were for
My Newspaper Puts Obits In The Section Called Living
And next to the answers for yesterday’s
puzzle
She (or He) was
possibly a frequent visitor to this park where I sit the
sweat cooling me as it evaporates beneath my breasts I am as solid
as this bench I am using to stretch my hamstrings so that I continue
uninjured, still thinking about death ( I do
today) noticing so many of the birds are
cardinals which my friend is convinced means a relative comes to stare
in your window, scraping a beak in remembrance
of their china cabinet in the corner. You don’t dust it
often enough. I ask one
to ask my grandmother
(with survivors too numerous to mention)
does she miss
drawing on that beauty mark
every morning; does she find she relaxes
in her own skin. I am assuming it is now
iridescent as a fish. She embellished
her own tribute in 2008 saying from New York
but my grandmother was born somewhere
less brilliant with lots of linoleum and Mars colored
clay, she was a vain woman I think
the bright feathers tempt her back to our world
Ashley Oakes lives in Tulsa, Oklahoma where her closet is full of dresses and pants with pockets—and lots of bags, which are just really big pockets. Some of her work has recently appeared in Unstammatic, Meetinghouse, Pink Panther Magazine, Claw+Blossom and elsewhere.
