Sam Campbell

to assume it all happens in new york city

is to pack the dishwasher

incorrectly. juxtapose

bowls & forks

glass & tupperware

cattle & cabs.

wake up and step in a puddle

soaking socks

with dirty dishwater

this shit place 

& these shit appliances 

Readjust realign 

resume today with yesterday’s work

select cycle:

los angeles. no.

des moines. no. 

coeur d’alene. no.

the only community I want

is to string a kite 

from the sorrow 

nipping in my belly

chuck it into a gale 

ripping through the entrails 

of sky. open me how grief opens time— 

stretching memories 

until their ends seem like an impossible 

reality. how fucking unfair 

to forget you like that

when the wind dies 

and I fall in a field

to which we have never been. 

uneasy in silence

I’m alone in the cold

thin air thinking you’ve

run through this grass before

so I stare at the brush to manifest 

your face poking through 

undead & together

ants are infesting 

the brown bananas in the kitchen

so I throw away 

such delicious potential and blame 

my addiction to all this leaving

select cycle:

chicago. no.

winnemucca. no.

bellingham. no. 

through the field

a river shimmers

in the bloated summer sun

despite its rush hushed 

to a whisper from the dam and drought

a trout surfaces 

for caddis, 

or an escape—

a chance at flying 

into the sun. 

the trees reach 

with their arthritic arms 

only to reflect 

their age in what’s left 

of the water. 

to have needled this river 

into your vein

rather than the morphine

that dripped your death 

to a dull drag, 

slowly holding 

your body 

I felt so small

in the waves 

of your blue skin

the only thing I’ve resolved 

is that dawn is never still

as I soak in the appliances’ susurration  

whirring just past a silence 

select cycle:

cary. no.

laramie. no.

libby. no.

I confess to the cold 

it’s the same that killed the lark

though I still love its crisp caress

as I scoop this death from the doorway

how lovely to nuzzle such a thing 

spreading like a disease

I trim and trail its feathers behind me 

as an offering 

quick wash. yes.

wiping my contamination

along the hot smooth surface

of each clean dish