Damn, it’s 7 a.m.

But I didn’t really sleep much anyway
in this strange room with his musk
and the unfamiliar nap of his sheets—
I swear this is the last time I follow
a musician home. It all goes to hell, and
I’m back in my blue Chevette, driving
the bridge with a can of juice, handy
in the v-of my thighs, typically mango,
viscous, but smooth, no pulp. I focus
on the mouth feel, slowly shifting
out my oral phase. The radio jock
rips at the veil between days—he brays
and bullies some starlet till she shows
him her tits—I’m so sick of this shit,
and I’m about to switch the station
when three rappers swarm the host,
cover him with stinging, rapier jokes.
So, I laugh the rest of the way home,
in the cold spot on my driver’s seat,
hurrying before work, to wash, rinse,
repeat, in the hot stream of forgetting.

Orchid

Who knows which moon will raise
the next flood in me? My condolence
orchid needs only an ice cube a week.

The purple-pink blooms are shaped
like orecchiette. I stare at their beauty
hungrily, sniff no discernible scent.

My father is being stored in a cold,
refrigerated drawer. He’ll be cut open
for science, the star points of his skin

folded back like petals. His body will
deliver his last lesson, each page
of him lifted and turned.

We wait for his ashes to return,
after all that can be learned from him
is learned, the remainder burnt.

My mother is still ranting about
his uncut yellow toenails that she felt
through the body bag. She’s furious

things weren’t set right. I keep trying.
If I could, I’d ball the orchid’s
rosy fingers back to small green fists.

____

Tina Posner just moved to San Diego, California via Austin, Texas and formerly Brooklyn, New York. Her work has appeared in Gyroscope, Ocean State Review, EcoTheo Review, Autofocus, Switchgrass Review, Dispatches from the Poetry Wars, and Winter Storm Project (an Austin arts anthology). She has an MFA from Pacific University. Find her on Instagram @tina.posner and say hey.