Three Poems by Allison Becker

Fog

 

all these buildings I can’t

see the top of in November

at 5:30 pm sun’s done for

the day I’m wearing a light jacket

I’m buying expensive yarn for

future scarves I’ve fallen in

love already a couple times tonight

the fog isn’t it so talented

at floating my love look I’m

wrapped in blankets for you

I’m chopping vegetables and placing

them in a bowl for you

You arrive with craft

beer in your backpack

we eat on the yoga mat

the mice in the walls circle

us while we sleep

 

 

 

Stick

 

the upstairs neighbors rearrange

their furniture every evening I

tug at this image of you in a tank

top barefoot king of the floorboards

you are throwing            a stick

to a dog you trained to come back

every time you find something

new in my bookcase my desk my

body tell me what you ate today

then let’s rearrange

the 

 

polka dots on my comforter

 

 

 

Windows

 

against the sheets you are all angles

and cold bones we lie not really touching

a thin breeze through the window that

never really closes old buildings man you

say the street makes orange squares

on my wall you say it’s what Rothko

painted windows never really change

do they over the years I cry into

grocery lists tonight’s wine tomorrow’s

orange juice inked to my face

 

 

 

 

 

Allison Becker lives in Brooklyn, works at a magazine and a coffee shop, and seriously loves poodles.