Light drips on the handle of our cups.
Mine is dark blue, hand
Crafted by a lady I met
Once, in Kentucky. It’s filled
With Camomile tea. No sugar.
Your cup is white, off white.
Filled with coffee, filled
With lots of cream, no sugar.
Rounded by machines.
We bought it at a Target
In New Jersey, that time
We went to visit my mom, after
You broke the one I got you
From that lady I met once.
I read about a type of Chinese pottery
That needs to be used consistently
Or it will crack.
It seems like a bit of a commitment.
I don't make tea that often and you
Don't make coffee in a tea pot.
Have I been hard to deal with,
Lately? I’ve been feeling that maybe
I am too difficult—I’m sorry
If that’s true. I’ll try harder.
“I ordered you a new mug”
“No, from Washington.”
“Oh” “I ordered two”
Tiana Murrieta is originally from New Jersey, though most of her months are spent in Massachusetts looking for a great bagel. When she is not on the brink of hypothermia (who does not love those New England winters?), she is working on growing a nice sized collection of poems.
I have never slaughtered a pig.
My hands, though slathered with a sheen
Of melted flesh, are swiftly cleaned
With a simple paper towel.
The cottonwood trees watch. Whisper. A
lyrical business, theirs. Bored by the Wind
River, they turn toward the termite-nibbled
The Pacific begs me to swim away, anything
to keep us from strangling each other
on the boardwalk. The Freakshow
is where our love belongs, a two-headed
oddity feasting on dust and bone
This is how pleasure goes marauding
thinking twenty was happy
thinking faces you won’t believe
wrapped in a smell of hand
When she reeked of distraction, a dozen fools
set out to decant her childhood.
You work with doll pieces and cigar
boxes. Mirrors reflect limbs
suspended on toothpicks.
It’s easy to forget how weird Elvis was, sitting in the Atlanta airport on a Sunday morning, Viva
Las Vegas on every screen,
lined up at the bar with fellow travelers recently notified that alcohol is not for sale until 12:30 this afternoon.
Come chill with me and watch a show
Tonight, whenever, I don't know;
We'll listen to the new J. Cole,
And I will judge your nipple mole
look back, look back
you will be Rorschach
a print of a man
She’s not my aunt by blood,
so I’ve a chance to taste her.