Former Girl Guide goes camping

I spelled Cassiopeia to earn
the astronomy badge, carpooled
to the planetarium. Concentric circles of blue
dresses. Phoebe rings, falling
star, meteorite. A girl’s right
hand on my left armrest. My gaze strung
between the Milky Way, the reef
knot moving at her throat.

Ten years later, you inherit
an Oldsmobile. Our first-aid kit a box
of toothpicks. You roll fast
cigarettes on the divided highway.
To pitch or continue, sink our corners
into tilting earth or keep
aiming for a spot that’s faultless.

A bedroom mock-up. A forest
diorama. You uncover the Adventure
badge stitched to my hip, skin
healing over thread. Belt buckles
that would bring us to the bottom
of the sea. I learned CPR by breathing
into a Styrofoam head, its mouth
wiped with alcohol between girls.

We identify nothing, give nothing
its name. Guess at what’s poison, which
stars are stars. I remember fire
starters of sawdust, wax, egg cartons,
when I used my resources
wisely. We neglect to repel insects.

Collect twist ties and hollow bottles.
Collapse the tent’s tendons, what gives
it shape, wear another layer.
The ground a bowl. Our bitten
ankles. We’re equally close
to two different towns.

Over and over, I convince myself
I want only one thing.

A ventriloquist, on what his dummy is like

He’s a bit of a ladies’ man. Hey, ladies.
He can’t help himself.
He hates the box. It’s dark.
I shimmy my hand into him
and he yelps. Comes alive to revel
in my flaws, fluent even
in the labial consonants:
you’re bald, boring, poor.
My face doesn’t move.
He travels carry-on, fits
in the overhead compartment.
A velvet drawstring bag
for his head, his most
delicate part, decapitated. He hates
the box. Imagine lying
nightly in your own coffin.
A vacant-jawed
cry. My fingertips roll
his eyes. You’re pathetic.
He gets haircuts. He is silicone
and fibreglass, full of sputters
and spit. This voice is shit. I need
a new voice. You’re fine,
I tell him. You’re fine.

Parachute

A garage band soundchecks
in the garage. Orange clouds
and I was tricked indoors to
see a dove, burbling in its cage.

Hands hold wire as a string
breaks, faint curses. Streamers
stained with footprints, cracked
cans litter a hammock. A falling
out could occur at any moment.
Moths swim to red lanterns.

There are too many people here.
The crowd rises in the house
like a tide, begins to use windows
as exits. They don’t believe
they can fly, only hope their paths
will be slow, their landings soft.