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last night's tangle of chairs
herbs and a topography of white beans in a brown bowl
her father was the singer in a punk band that got straight or just old.
they pulled her out of our rv
parked on the corner by the freeway.
she was tousled and coming down,
legs tangled in the strings of a cut-off ball gown.

stems on the cutting board
movement from the dance floor.
elbows, hips, cheeks, feet
watched the sun sink under the magnolia tree
and the gas station and our neighbors' fists
shaking at the fence
lullabies she sang from down the hall
danced circles around the living room
i mouthed along with
her small voice on matthew's bed
i found her by the freeway
with tattoos on her neck
the empty apartment is tangled in my hair
my body is tangled in the arms of this chair