Late Spring

The boy swung the car door open and knocked
the boy off his bike and the boy jumped
from the room he lit on fire and the boy
emailed me to get out of class because the boy
saw the boy jump and the boy got knocked off
his bike by the car door in the sun on the last
spring day beneath the blooms right before the boy
emailed and the boy might be dead the college
didn’t say and I teach a writing class today we learn
the Three Most Important Words in the English Language
I ask the students do you know and the boy raises
his hand and the boy says fuck this shit
and I say this is all so insufficient and what
does that mean the boy might be dead the boy
might’ve burned the boy might be crazy the boy
might live the boy might not be much more
depressed than I am or than the boys in the class
or the boys in the yards sinking stained
balls in cups or lying on the sidewalk by the car
in a tank top buzz cut watching falling petals
stick to bloody palms while the other boy looks
and what are we trying to learn what does
he and why did the boy jump the college didn’t
say and why did he light the room and
why did I not say to my students
what would I have said to my students
I sat on the porch while the boy tumbled
into the street and stayed there and the other
boy the one in the car said dude sorry I didn’t
check the mirror and the boy moaned and I
thought the flowers looked nice in the light
and the boy’s blood did too framed pink
with cherry blossoms that won’t be there tomorrow

Inconceivable

I felt so guilty about the couch
where I came, leaving a stain

in the Sioux City air
bnb. I got on my knees,

tried to rub clean the microsuede
with hand soap and spit.

There was a family
beside a cross on the shelf.

They’d trace me,
put me on a list—

but when we left
our host wrote to say

You left my home immaculate.