Eric Tran

I’m so well recovered I dream of cramming teeth into my gums. Smile like an alley of garbage cans, a pane of bowling pins. Give me metal, I’ll gift you a turkey. And now the poem turns to hunting, in each declaration some allele of violence. Last night my beloved knocked me in the face while turning in bed. I lay in the closing pose. When he asks why I love to sleep so late, I’m not sure he means to ask what he asks. But I’m so well I don’t think much

                 of opening a window with my whole soft palm against the glass. So much at the surface you swear

                                you saw the ocean. Slip of a wave, the swish of a wrist. Little details. I saved the medical record number of the man who wanted me broken. I don’t have to remember his name, this way. I can whisper digits into a hole and fill it with wildflowers. How I can’t watch always but trust my seeds feast upon the dirt.