IN THE MIDDLE, NEVER SAID
  Duplex

I pretended he was you and found
a marked resemblance in the dark.

Contrasts of dark and light exchanged. Like yours,
his mouth was a tense muscle.

His mouth was a tense muscle
that never said yes, never said no.

He never said I, never said you, and so 
these absent people took up no space. 

These absent people never happened.
One never snagged her nail on the pocket of another.

One never snagged a pocket open,
gave a raindrop permission to fall into it.

The tear slid into it, a real tear,
and not one I pretended was for you. 




MARINA DOESN’T TRUST

her own hands. The fingers remember too well clanking the decanter’s stopper, scratching into the bowl of French burnt peanuts. The palms and fists itch to roshambo—yes or no—let desperation froth, or untangle that coat, inhale moss and fern on the collar, and keep going. No, those gavels stay in their pockets, they can't be trusted. But the unending . . . Inside each pocket is a barely contained riot. To burn down the factory. Melt the machines. For something to emerge, satin, from ambient contrition and sate every knuckle. Invite each one to graze the glass and smash it.

Kristan LaVietes is an extreme Libra and greeting card maven living in the island city of Alameda, California. She has some degrees, but her proudest accomplishment is having learned to navigate the many platforms and apps required to keep up with communications from her children’s schools.